


with cosmos in my soul

by NikeScaret



Series: I have the universe branded on my heart (and the stars beneath my ribs) [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Also Damian is so vulnerable, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because he's Damian, Damian Wayne Centric, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne is a god, Damian knew Jason from when he was being trained by Talia, Gen, Heavy Angst, I don't care what you think of me, I'm pulling from many different things in canon, Imprisonment, Including the N52 but it's really only Batman and Robin comics, Jason Todd is a good brother, Not so much physically but emotionally, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Talking about things like responsible people for once, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Yes I'm doing that trope, fear toxin, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 52,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10938834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikeScaret/pseuds/NikeScaret
Summary: Talia tells him that he's meant to rule when he's four, but the moment he was born, Earth surrendered to his commands.Damian doesn't tell her.(In which a bored cosmic god comes down to Earth, becomes Damian Wayne, and proceeds to fuck fate's divine plan up without even knowing it in the smallest and oddest of ways.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *looks at word count* 
> 
> ...I don't think this will be the word count for every chapter....
> 
> But!
> 
> This idea has been around for a bit, but I only just starting focusing on it.
> 
> And-drumroll please!
> 
> It's a multi-chaptered fic!
> 
> And it's intentional!
> 
> Bet you guys thought I'd never do it.
> 
> But, anyways, please tell me what you think of it.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 7/8/18

Damian's born with galaxies swirling in his irises and the power of the stars underneath his skin, with the knowledge of millennia tucked away in his mind. Damian's born too old for his body and yet the right age, with a soul that shines like a supernova and threatens to burn anything that comes into contact.

The Lazarus Pit shies away when he's born, and Death avoids him because he's the one who created them, who can take them apart as easily as he can put them together, and it doesn't matter if he's in a mortal shell, he still has his power that lurks just out of reach. Death’s been his companion for millenia now, but Death has always been wary to a point of him. Damian remains this way for a year, for over three hundred days, and, still, Death stays away. Damian isn’t surprised, not really. Death has always been cautious, and maybe it thinks that he will snap at it if it gets close. Damian won’t, but Death has no way to know that.

When he reaches a year old, his nannies whisper about him. They say he has eyes older than their Lord, than the man who conquered the world. They say he has the look of someone who has lived long past their years. They say he gazes at the world around him with something close to amusement, something close to weariness. They say he has an old soul. Damian doesn’t correct them. Why would he? They would never believe him if he told them the truth.

Damian's has the world at his fingertips and the universe in his soul before he was a year old and it will remain that way until this shell dies. Long after, too.

Talia tells him that he's meant to rule when he's four, but the moment he was born, Earth surrendered to his command. Damian doesn't tell her. His mother is powerhungry, with bloodlust in her gaze and a twisted love in her heart. Her love, he knows, isn’t something good. It isn’t something healthy. But he also doesn’t know anything different, doesn’t know anything unlike it. So - he accepts it. He takes it in and he lives it; he doesn’t know anything different. And that - that will show later, although he doesn’t know that. For all his power, he’s doesn’t have the ability to tell the future.

* * *

Damian likes to play. He does. Thing is, he just doesn't play like others.

The play he does is bloody. It's swords that shine in the moonlight, red hearts that stop beating. It's the smooth movement of a killing blow, the snarls and fear of battle. And - nobody ever said the cosmos were calm, were kind. Nobody ever said it wasn’t angry, wasn’t bored and willing to play. Nobody said that and it’s their mistake. Damian has just never said anything different.

Damian can feel stars dying in his chest and new ones being born. He can feel the molten surface of newly formed planets burning. Here’s the thing, through - space is violent, and it isn't kind. It's only natural that he's the same, since he is space. He has black holes in his heart, at his fingertips. Space is brutally beautiful, viciously gorgeous, and it entraps the hearts of anyone willing to look. And, again, Damian reflects that.

He shows it in the graceful steps, in the lights he makes that are reminiscent of the sun, in the way that his eyes seem to flow from one shade of green to another. He shows it in his very being and his actions, and Damian knows he's beautiful.

Beautiful, enticing, and most of all  _ dangerous _ . Damian never claimed to be anything contrary.

And Damian smiles as a star dies and the Lantern Core runs to some battle, their cries echoing in his ears as he falls to the ground with his human mother's sword at his neck.

“You lost, Damian,” she says, and Damian fights back a laugh, because how wrong she is, how wrong she is. “You'll have to try again.”

If Damian had been trying, her head would be gone from her body.

Instead, he nods, and accepts her hand. He wants to be as strong as he possibly can before he's fifteen, and that's why he's putting up with this.

(Damian ignores the small part of him that's attached to this woman, this woman who's used his creation many times for herself.

He ignores it, and so it isn't there.)

* * *

Damian's four in this flesh when Jason Todd appears. He knows what happened to him-he felt the way Gotham groaned and snarled. He knows what happened and he also knows that Jason is just a body using muscle memory, eyes blank and his consciousness gone. But - there’s this small bit of compassion in his heart, something like pity, and so Damian takes Jason Todd under his wing, under his care.

He calls for Death to ease the anguish in Jason’s mind and creates light shows as he reads to Jason, makes the scenes come to life with a wave of his hand.

The universe might be cruel, but it is giving.

Damian is the same, because why wouldn’t he? The universe lives within him, after all.

But, soon - much too soon, and Damian would kill her if he hadn’t grown to to care for her in the same twisted way she does him - Talia seems to grow tired of trying to heal Jason, and so she takes him to the Lazarus Pit. The Lazarus Pit that obeys him. Damian tries not to smirk that knife sharp smirk he’s inherited from her.

Damian follows and watches as Jason, eyes wide and unseeing and yet still revealing such emotion as he's lowered into the green. Sympathy rises in his chest, and his eyes flash brilliant white as he whispers, “Do not harm him.”

The Pit trembles before him and does as he commands, gently washing away his self-appointed ward's physical injurie. It is in it's nature to bring pain, though, and so it makes Jason feel rage that makes him shake in place, that makes him attack as he emerges wearing the clothes Damian dressed him in that morning, screaming out names. Damian reaches out, a bit of Death’s power in his grip, and eases the transition from dead to truly living.

When Jason's alone, sitting in a room that's his but not, Damian enters. Jason has his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with tears, and he glances up when the door opens.

“What do you want, kid?” Jason asks him, and Damian momentarily bristles. He's not a  _ child- _

Damian breathes and lets the faint glow fade from his skin, and his eyes stop having galaxies spin. He’s not a child, no, but to Jason he is, and to him, that’s enough for the boy to not want Damian to see him like this.

“I was taking care of you.” Damian replies, and he climbs onto the bed with the book he’s been reading this week.

“You don't need to any,” Jason starts, and Damian cuts him off.

“I do. Now shut up, and let me read.”

Jason shuts up.

And Damian reads, the silence making it easy. He steals looks at the strange, impossible boy next to him, and thinks that, maybe, it wouldn’t be bad to have him here.

* * *

Jason and Damian develop a bond.

Jason and Damian are family.

Damian goes to Jason's for to relax, to get advice and to get away from his mother, and Jason talks to him when he won't talk to anyone, when the memories get too much and he thinks that a crowbar is just about to come down on him.

It's - nice. Damian knows that it will end, though. Nice things like this are earned, not given, he just -

He just…wishes that it isn't so soon.

Jason's kneeling in front of him, big hands heavy on Damian's five year old shoulders, and Damian has never felt so out of control.

Plasma writhes underneath his skin in protest, and Damian can’t blame it, not when he feels tears stinging his eyes and his temper rising.

“Dami, I have to go,” Jason says, and his voice is soft, is sad.

Damian grinds his teeth together. “I know. But I don't want you to.”

Jason laughs and pulls him in for a hug. Damian only lets him do it because it's Jason. And - Jason has special privileges.

“I know. But I need more training.”

“But you can get all of your training right here!” Damian shouts, and his voice is muffled from Jason's chest.

Tears are gathering in Damian's eyes, and normally he would stop them, would angrily stifle them, but Jason is leaving, and he's one of the only stable points in Damian's life.

Damian thinks he has the right to cry.

Halley's Comet sails past asteroids and little bits of ice fall off from the rest. Damian thinks those shards are his tears.

“I can't - your mother says that I can't.”

“Fuck her! You need to stay with me!” Damian shouts, because he knows how fickle human memory is, how easy it is for mortals to forget.

He doesn't want to be forgotten.

“Kid, I need to if I'm ever going to go back to Gotham.” Jason tries, and Damian's had  _ enough. _

He screams, high and mighty, and it breaks the windows.

Jason stares and Damian runs.

He runs and runs, and he doesn't look back, because Jason was his and now he's not.

Jason's gone by morning, but Damian has already buried the incident in his mind, has already made it forgotten in his own memory.

He doesn’t want anyone so ready to abandon him, he thinks, and forces the anger that burns in his blood like acid.

* * *

Damian's nine and he hasn't heard from Jason in two years.

He turns his sadness into fury, and soldiers on, throwing himself into his training in a way that Jason would disapprove of.

But Jason isn't here, Damian thinks as he holds the tip of a dagger to his target's neck.

Jason isn't here, and Talia isn't holding back because of it. Jason was the one who said no to the extreme training, who glared and told her to fuck off. Jason isn’t here and Talia sends Damian on missions, on birthday challenges that make him bleed, and Damian keeps his mouth shut during it all.

Damian takes lives just like his stars and he doesn't feel remorse because he's raised the way.

Blood stains his hands and drips to the floor, and Damian's still too old for his body, still has the cosmos in his soul, but sometimes he feels like he's falling apart.

He's never gotten attached before and now he cares for two people, and one has left and the other is distant.

He's close to shattering the day of his tenth birthday, but he beats Talia because he doesn't care how much he shows, how much of power he reveals. He just doesnt care he doesn’t see why he should.

But he beats Talia all the same, which means that he can meet his father, and Damian knows that means going to Gotham, which is where Jason is.

Damian hopes that he sees Jason, hopes that Jason remembers him.

Damian hopes that he comes to care for his father, and his father for him.

Damian hopes many things but only some of them come true.

* * *

The first time Damian sees his father face to face, Damian is ten and his father is beat. The first time Damian meets his father, he holds a sword to his throat and says, “Hello, Father. I thought you'd be taller.”

When Damian is ten years old, a tick tock begins in the back of his head, and he goes with his father to Gotham, filled with wishes and wants and Bruce Wayne doesn't know.

(He thinks that the countdown is a gift from Death, but he doesn’t know what kind of gift Death would give.)

The Manor isn't like Damian is used to. It's quiet, and Damian's used to the bustle of servants and trainees and masters and sparring. The manor is far, far too quiet, and Damian doesn’t know what to do beyond try to connect the only way he knowsh how - through violence. But then -

Then there's Tim Drake.

Damian- Damian meets him, and he knows he's seen this soul before.

Damian reaches out and let's a long, graceful finger rest on that soul and he knows, knows that Tim Drake is someone that he's met in the past, and maybe Damian thinks that he should cultivate the same kind of relationship he had in time long since gone with him. He thinks that, but the fact that he knew Tim Drake doesn’t mean that he knows him now, doesn’t doesn't mean that Damian will respect him. Experience shapes the individual, and the soul provides the core characteristics.

That, and Damian wants his spot as Robin because maybe then he'll find Jason because he’s been longing for  _ so long, _ wishing and wanting and needing to see Jason again, to hear to his voice.

But Bruce won't let him out, which is irritating, but he’s always done things he’s been told not to do, and goes out anyway, heading for Red Hood's territory.

Jason will know him, he thinks, some desperation in his chest. Jason will help him.

Jason will-

“Hey, kid.”

Jason.

Damian turns around and there he is, in a leather jacket, bullet proof armour, and a red helmet; Damian smiles, wanting nothing more than to have Jason hug him again, and steps forward, his hands raising for a handshake that he hopes will come.

“What are you doing here?” Jason asks, and Damian takes off his mask, looking for recognition.

There no-

“Who are you?”

There's no recognition. Jason doesn't remember him. Why would he? Humans have such fickle minds that he’s surprised he remembered him.

Damian strangles the sob that tries to force itself out of his throat ruthlessly. Jason was supposed to remember him, supposed to explain humans to him because Damian doesn't understand them, not even after ten years of being one.

Jason-

Damian puts his domino mask back on and jumps away.

If Jason doesn't know him, then Damian won't bother him.

* * *

Damian knows that he'll get in trouble, but that doesn't trouble him. It won’t be long term and it can’t be worse than his grandfather’s punishments. He can feel a galaxy dying millions of billions light years away, and the terror the planets feel is minuscule to his own because Damian lost one of the two people he loves.

He only has one left, and Damian is miles away from her, can't protect her because his body can only been in one place at once.

Talia is by herself without his protection, and that's what scares Damian. He loves Talia in a way that’s not healthy or sane but it’s love all the same. He doesn’t want her gone, no matter how many times he’s hated her.

Bruce is yelling at him, Damian realizes dimly.

He doesn't care, not really. He wants to go home, he wants his mother, he wants-

He wants to go back to when Jason was there and he was only four, when Talia was more of a mother than she's ever been. He wants to go back to when they were brothers, and-

“Damian!” Bruce roars, and Damian snaps to attention, eyes narrowing on his father.

“I don't feel regret.” The word slip out, and it's an utter lie, every word of it, since he regrets that he broke out, regrets that he extinguished his flame of hope he's carried for three years, because sometimes that's all that kept him going.

He regrets and wants to go home.

Bruce is talking again, and Damian tunes him out, and pays attention to the Guardians of Oa. They're trying to find out where he went, which is amusing considering the fact that they all fear him. Fair, of course, but still. It’s amusing.

A small smirk flickers to life on his lips at his thoughts before dying. “I don’t regret it,” he repeats, and Bruce’s eyes twitch.

“Go to your room,”Bruce demands, and Damian does as he's told, leaving the cave and heading to his room. He lays down on his bed and stares at the ceiling with a knife in his heart. Jason doesn’t remember him and everything seems to be falling apart at the seams.

He tilts his head back and breathes.

It will get better, and if it doesn’t -

Damian glances at the katana by the door and clenches his fist, light gathering in his palm.

If it doesn't, Damian will be what he was before.

* * *

Bruce dies only a month into Damian's stay at the Manor, but by then Damian has come to form a small bond with him.

The loss tears at his chest, makes him scream and struggle to keep his power under control, because he knows he could destroy the world if he loses even a bit. So instead, Damian goes out and fights because that's the only thing he knows. Gotham is in chaos, big villains are running the city, and Damian refuses to let it continue, refuses to let the city his father loved so much, protected it so fiercely to fall to ruin.

The sky whispers in his ears, tells him where to land and where to go, and Damian follows its advice, because what else does he have to lose? If he mistimes a jump, the Earth will catch him. If he gets hurt, he will heal. He has nothing to lose and nothing to gain. He’s in this odd limbo, one where everything and little matters, and he just - doesn’t know what to do beyond raise his blade and  _ fight. _

When it's all said and done, when Dick has taken over the role of Batman and Damian has the role of Robin for good, Damian heads to Bruce’s grave and sets a few contained stars he made the night before by his headstone. They shine like the sun - ironic considering the sun was his father’s worst enemy - and it's best thing Damian could make.

He sits there, simply reading the words carved into the stone, and wonders how humans can move through the emotions that cloud their mind and fill their heart.

How can they move on?

He sits in front of his father's grave and wonders.

* * *

"Damian?” Dick's voice is hesitant.

Damian doesn't hear him.

“Damian?” The brush slides over the canvas, leaving color on its wake.

Damian supposes he's always been an artist. He sets the stars in patterns, draws with nebula clouds, and creates the planets how he wants.

“Damian?”

He dots white upon black and paints Krypton in its last days. It's one of his more memorable creations, mostly because of Superman.

“Damian!”

His headphones are yanked out of his ears, music blasting loud enough that they can hear it in the still air, and Damian glares. “What?” He snaps, setting down his brush.

“I-” Dick stumbles over his words. Damian raises a eyebrow.

Dick takes a breath. “Do you want to go get something to eat?”

Damian thinks about it, running a hand through his hair. He hasn't eaten in a few days, and he can feel his limbs weighing down. It would be logical to get a meal, to take a break and rest. He nods, adds the final touch to Krypton, and rises. “Fine.”

Dick's face lights up, and he grabs him by the wrist, dragging him out the door. “Yes! I know a good burger place-”

Damian let's him talk and ponders on whether or not Dick Grayson will end up being someone he lets inside his heart. The three times he let someone in, he got hurt twice. He doesn't want it to happen again.

His irises shine with the Milky Way at the thought and nobody notices.

* * *

Dick sneaks his way into Damian’s heart without Damian’s permission. He forces his way into Damian’s care and refuses to leave, and Damian is powerless to stop, powerless to say no.

He’s always been terrible at denying those he claims as his.

But Dick is Batman, and Damian is Robin, and Damian’s learning more and more about being human, about being Damian Wayne, that Jason almost slips from his thoughts.

Almost.

Jason lurks in Damian’s mind when he’s ready to sleep, when Dick is hugging him, when he’s practicing a move that Jason helped him perfect.

Jason Todd is always there, and Damian knows him, loves him, but Jason doesn’t. But that doesn’t matter, not when he’s with Dick, because Dick is not Jason. Dick is a planet unto himself, and for once Damian knows how the moons feel when they circle around a planet, because Damian orbits Dick Grayson, and he doesn’t want to let go.

Dick promises him that they won’t be separated, swears to it, and Damian has no reason not to believe him, no reason to doubt him. Dick has always kept his promises, always 

Later, he will look back on that with disgust-he was naive, even after a millennia, because Bruce comes back. Bruce comes back, and he makes the transition from Bruce to Father, and Dick leaves.

Dick  _ leaves. _

Damian-

Damian goes into the forest at night while Father is out on patrol and lets loose for the first time in this life.

He screams and curses Dick Grayson, who lied to him so much, who broke his promise to him, his word to his little brother, his  _ heart. _

Light races up his veins and floods out of his eyes, bright and unforgiving. The stars glow brighter, the moon spins, and a entire solar system is destroyed in his blind fury, his oblivious outrage.

He razes everything he can find, obliterates trees and boulders. Stars spin to life on his fingertips, dazzling and near their end, and he pushes them into the ground, uses his strength to push them deeper. He feels the Earth buck up, shake and tremble from his rage.

He screams again, and the sky seems to form a crack, the ozone layer buckling under the strain of his emotions. He can feel his body breaking down, but he doesn’t want to stop - he can’t stop.

Damian reshapes the landscape and it’s still not enough, but he disregards the tears falling from his eyes.

He only ever seems to get hurt.

He only ever seems to love and get punished for doing it.

All he wants is someone to  _ stay _ . All he wants is -

Damian falls to his knees, then on all fours, and he screams again, voice hoarse and choking on his cries.

He hates Dick Grayson.

He  _ hates  _ him.

Hates him, hates him,  _ hates him- _

“You bastard!” Damian shouts to the world, and he hopes that Dick can hear him. “I hope you know that you aren’t anything to me!”

Damian sobs for for the almost-father he lost, for the bond that was broken, shattered into a million pieces.

He falls asleep in that clearing two miles wide, falls asleep and dreams of better times. Where Talia and Father are together and happy, and Damian has two parents, where Dick doesn’t lie, where Jason remembers him and gives him the hugs that make Damian feel like he’s safe.

He dreams, and they’re his most guarded wishes. He believes they’re real for a little while, just until he wakes up. It's enough to hurt him.

* * *

Damian lives with Father and Pennyworth, and he’s content.

Father-

Father is strict, but he’s only wishing for what is best. Damian knows this, he does. But he is much, much older than Father and is aware of his limits, so he pays no heed to Father’s orders, because he is conscious of his body.

Father...dislikes that.

Damian shrinks under his glare, and he wishes that Dick was here. But he shakes off that fantasy and stands straight, glaring right back. He doesn’t need to tell his father that he didn’t get hurt. He doesn’t need to tell him anything.

“Just...Just go to your room.”

Damian obeys, reaching the place that should be his safe haven but is anything but. Then he sneaks out and goes to Jason’s.

And he waits for him to come home, not knowing why he’s such a masochist to do this to himself, why he hates himself so much that he wants to see the lack of recognition in his brother’s eyes. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. He just - he can’t care, not right now.

He waits, not knowing why he’s like this.

* * *

A few miles away, two people stumble upon a clearing twenty miles away from Wayne Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always loved and brighten up my day and are saved in my Gmail.
> 
> Also! Here's my [Tumblr.](http://nikescaret.tumblr.com) Come visit and chat with me if you want!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't do this.
> 
> He can't-
> 
> Damian turns and runs, leaves Jason and Dick in dust, leaping across the gaps between buildings, and he wonders why he's always running away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo apparently when you type on the computer, it's easier to type longer works.
> 
> I've been typing on my phone because I typically don't have a computer at my disposal.
> 
> But!
> 
> Whatever.
> 
> I actually have the N52 Batman and Robin comics, and they're actually pretty good, so I based the bottom bit of this chapter off of those. I also completely took dialogue because that's how I imagine it would go in this universe, but you also get some inner Damian stuff.
> 
> So, yeah. Hope you enjoy!

Damain’s asleep when Jason walks through the door, curled up around a pillow.

“Demon Brat, what the hell are you doing in my room?” Jason asks loudly, and Damian slowly comes to, and right now his eyesight is blurry, and he thinks its years ago, so he grabs Jason’s arm and pulls him onto the couch and climbs into his lap, tucking his head under Jason’s head like he’s done it a million times before.

Jason freezes. “Damian?”

Damian makes a noise, shivers, and Jason automatically grabs a blanket. He lays it on top of the little boy and simply watches as Damian drops back off to sleep, clutching Jason's shirt and letting out little puffs of breath.

Damian's been raised by the League of Assassins.

He shouldn't _trust_ Jason this much.

But he does, and it's been so long since anyone has trusted him this much, this completely, so he wraps his arms around Damian, and leans forward.

He rests his chin on Damian's head, and rocks back and forth, humming a tune he didn't even know but seems familiar and falls asleep to Damian's warmth and a feeling in his chest.

Jason falls asleep, and for once he doesn't dream.

* * *

Damian wakes up, and for a moment he can pretend everything is fine. He knows these arms. He's safe.

It passes, and he stiffens.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck-_

Why did he come here?

Damian recalls his thinking patterns.

He thought…

He thought that-that Jason could help with the ball of _feelings_ in his chest, because it was overwhelming him to the point where he felt like he was downing, and Dick was gone so he couldn't help like he normally could, so he went to Jason.

Damian scowls.

Why the hell did he think that?

Jason doesn't _know_ him beyond the fact that he's Robin.

But…

Damian shifts, and Jason wakes up.

Damian rolls into the floor, landing the way he was trained, and looks up at Jason.

His heart thuds in his chest.

_Thump-thump-thu-_

“Hey” Jason says.

Damian jumps to his feet and runs.

He can't-

Jason grabs his ankle, makes him fall to the floor, and pulls him to his chest.

Damian struggles the whole way because he's not ready for this, he can't face Jason, he _can't-_

Damian kicks and bites, and Jason gets hurt, but he still doesn't let go.

He needs to let go.

He needs to-

Damian hits him in just the right place, and Jason drops him.

Damian's out the window in a moment, bounding on the rooftops to get away.

A laugh tickles his ears, and Damian glares at the sky. “You may find this funny, but I'll be laughing when you explode.”

The sun doesn't dignify that with an answer.

“Demo-Damian!”

Jason's chasing him.

Adrenaline bursts through his veins, and Damian goes faster.

It's almost like those times when he and Jason raced on the roofs of the compound, breathy laughter echoing in the wind and Damian just a step ahead.

Almost.

Jason catches his wrist, just like he used to, only it's not in the desert sun and Damian isn't as carefree and Jason isn't going to tickle him until he cries.

Instead, Jason pins him.

He hasn't-

He hasn't done that since the second month of him being lucid.

Damian lashes out, teeth bared. He isn't _his_ Jason, no matter how similar they act, or how similar they look.

It. Isn't. _Him!_

Jason evades just as Damian drops his head into the stone below.

He's… He's been avoiding that thought.

He's clung onto the hope that Jason will get his memories back for so long that Damian shuts down without it.

He goes limp and doesn't see, doesn't hear.

Doesn't notice anything.

And he doesn't know for how long.

It scares him.

* * *

Damian comes to when he's being lifted into arms and held like a baby, and the emotions that weigh him down makes Damian want to rip out his heart.

_“Jason. What. Happened.”_

That's-

That's _Dick-_

Damian lifts his head from Jason's shoulder and turns exhausted eyes over to where Dick is.

He's red now.

Red instead of blue.

But his face is the same, and it softens when he looks over at Damian.

Damian looks back down.

“I don't _know, okay?”_ Jason snarls, arm tightening around Damian, like he'll be taken away.

Damian's eyes glow a bit as the thought.

“Well, something must have happened!” Dick snaps back, and Damian has almost never heard Dick sound so-so _angry._

“Little D, why don't you come home?” Dick asks after a moment of silence.

Damian winces; Father will be furious. He doesn't want to go back.

Jason turns him away from Dick. “Yeah, no.”

Dick narrows his eyes and his hands hover around his escrima sticks.

Damian focuses on Dick's fingers as Jason and Dick start to circle each other.

They don't have finger-stripes.

Damian squeezes his eyes shut-he feels sick.

Everything just seems too much right now, like every little detail is a giant wave that crashes into him.

Damian scrubs under his eyes. It's too loud.

It's too bright.

It's too much.

Damian feels out of control, like everything is the size of the galaxy and he can't-

He's hyperventilating.

Damian buries his face in Jason's leather jacket, trying to regulate his breathing.

It doesn't work.

His eyesight is going blurry, and he can't _breathe-_

He's on the ground again.

He's on the ground with Jason and Dick in front of him, and he tries to close his eyes.

He can't, but he can cover his ears, and that's enough right now.

Dick's talking, and Damian can't hear him, but he's been trained to read lips.

_Damian, calm down._

Damian wants to laugh. _I would if I could!_

Jason shoves Dick aside and places his hands on Damian's shoulders.

_Dick, shut up. Let me._

Gamma rays shine from the stars, and Damian watches as they land.

_Damian, look at me. It's going to be fine._

Damian shakes his head. It's not going to be fine.

It hasn't been fine since Damian was six.

He's just-

Dark matter laughs at him, coaxing him to come back.

Damian wants to, so badly.

Jason tears Damian's hands away from his ears. “Damian, you need to breathe.”

Damian sucks in a breath he didn't ever know he needed.

His head clears.

“Damian, listen to me. You need to calm down.”

It's-it's like those times when Damian had gotten too worked up and Jason had to talk to him.

Jason has the same tone.

Damian clings to Jason's neck, because that's what he did back then, and it's hard to get rid of habits that you simply don't have the opportunity to do.

Jason wraps his arms around Damian's back, just like he always did, and it's muscle memory, Damian knows, so he doesn't get his hopes up again.

Dick's watching from the sidelines, stance wary, and Damian remembers how much he _hates_ him.

Hates everything.

He slips out of the hug like he's water, like he's those little bits of rock that glide in and out of the asteroid belt, and steps back.

He can't do this.

He can't.

Damian turns and runs, leaves Jason and Dick in dust, leaping across the gaps between buildings, and he wonders why he's always running away.

* * *

_Tick, tock._

_Tick, tock._

The universe laughs, mad and free, and Damian covers his ears.

_Tick, tock._

It's a countdown.

But for what?

The wind caresses his cheek, and the moon looms overhead, and they offer no answers.

_Tick, tock._

**_Tick, tock._ **

It's gotten louder.

Like the sound of a piano keys being slammed.

**Tick, tock.**

**Tick, tock.**

Damian claws at his face.

Why? Why, why, why-

His nails are wet.

Damian pulls back and-

Blood.

Damian closes his eyes, the _tick, tock_ fading as he bandages his face.

This-

This can't happen again.

He can't afford to do self harm.

 _(_ _Tick_ , _tock!_  The cosmos sing, and Damian ignores it.)

* * *

Titus is a unexpected surprise.

He…

Damian likes him, almost.

He's loyal down to his soul, and all he ever really thinks about is playing.

Damian should know-he's checked.

But-

He likes Titus. He really does, and for once Damian gets some sleep when Titus climbs into bed with him.

Damian hasn't been sleeping for a while now.

So when he stands in front of Martha and Thomas Wayne's grave, the bags under his eyes more noticeable than ever, when he gives Titus his name, Damian looks at his lifespan.

And it breaks his heart.

If he's healthy, maybe nine years.

Damian refuses to accept that.

He gently loosens the tie that binds Titus' soul's contract to death, and it instantly adds nine more years.

Then Damian names him, claims him as his, and he feels it wash over Titus in a way that hasn't really been _done_ before.

But then Ducard comes, Damian goes with him, and he can't stop to _think_ on what happened.

Not until it's four in the morning, with Titus laying his head on Damian's stomach, and Damian scratching his ear that he feels it.

A bond. A bond that shines silver, and Damian basks in its presence, smiles at the ceiling as he falls asleep.

For once, Damian knows he's not alone.

* * *

Talia places a five billion dollar bounty on his head.

Damian stares at the screen, eyes widening.

_“... What?”_

Talia-

Talia wants him _dead._

Damian reaches out with his powers, wishing for the comfort of knowing that his mother is being mind controlled or _something,_ but-

There's no foreign presence.

His mother wants him _dead._

Damian walks away from the screen, a whine starting in his ears until it blocks out everything.

_Tick, tock._

Suddenly, sickeningly, Damian knows what that count down is for.

He's going to die.

Damian glances around, and nods.

If-if he's going to die soon, he might as well die after doing things that he's been thinking of doing.

(He swallows down the bile in his throat, because you never show emotion, not when it involves Talia.

Still-

Still, he thought that Talia valued him more than that.

Apparently not, and Damian punches the cave wall in rage.)

* * *

Damian breathes through his nose.

In. Out.

In. Out.

His brothers argue below, shouting and snarling, and Damian wants silence.

But he called them here, so he might as well tell them why they’re here.

“Neither did I, so who-”

“That would be me.” Damian says, sliding down, and he ignores how his heart wrenches at the sight of Dick and Jason.

“With a _half-billion-dollar_ bounty on your head, shouldn’t you be in your crib back at the manor instead of making yourself an easy target for _assassins?”_ Jason shouts, guns pointed at him, and Damian tells himself that he imagined the tone of concern in Jason’s voice.

Why would he care?

 _(Tick, tock!_ The stars above giggle. _Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick-)_

“You mean _these_ assassins?” Damian asks sarcastically as he drops the two he caught only minutes before on the roof.

“Why are you wasting our time?” Jason snarls, but his guns are lowered, and Damian counts that as a win as he lands in front of his ‘siblings’.

“I’m serving notice.”

“Of what?” Dick asks, and Damian strangles the urge to throw a asteroid in his face.

Damian looks over his shoulder. “Day or night, when you least expect it, I’m going to defeat you at something you feel _unbeatable_ at.”

“You’re going to attack us?” Dick says, and his face is set in disappointment.

Shame sinks into his bones.

Damian forcefully makes it go away.

“Yes, then I’m going to take something personal of your as a memento and hang it in my room.”

It sounds so stupid, so recklessly idiotic, but right now Damian doesn’t care.

He has less than five months to live, and all he wants to show that he’s not a child, that he can handle himself and that when he goes, he has things that remind him of his family around him.

He may hate Dick, he may actively dislike Tim, and he may despair over Jason, but they’re family.

He hasn’t had a family before.

“And this is to prove _what,_ exactly?” Dick demands. Damian clenches his teeth as he gives the answer they expect.

“That I am the best Robin, of course.”

“To who?”

“To you. To him. To me.”

Secretly, Damian thought that he was a excellent Robin, but…

He’s hardly the best.

“You’ve got _nothing_ to prove-none of us do-” Dick stops, and Damian dares to look back. “...Well, actually, maybe you do-”

Damian kills the want to interrupt and defend Jason. Jason doesn’t need his protection, no matter how much Damian wishes to give it.

“But you heard what he said at the portrait sitting.”

Damian hated that. Why sit still for hours when a person could be training or doing anything else?

Damian isn’t built to not be in motion. Everything he represents is constantly moving, and Damian often feels this itch under his skin, just below the surface that says he should be doing the same.

That same itch is rising, and Damian scratches at his knee.

 _“Portrait sitting?_ Guess my invitation was lost in the mail.” Jason shouts, and Damian fights back the urge to laugh. Jason did have a sense of humor that wasn’t lost.

“Forewarned is forearmed.” Damian recites, pulling his hood over his head as the clouds murmur about killers after him in his ears.

“Bat-san still preaching that old chestnut, huh?”

 _Yes, he is, Jason._ Damian thinks with a small sigh. He despises that lesson. In space there’s typically little warning.

“You’re ten years old-any one of us can wipe the floor with you.” Tim says with a smirk.

Damian scowls. He could incinerate them right now, and nobody would be any the wiser on who did it because according to them, he’s not a meta.

Well. He isn’t, technically.

“You can _try.”_ Damian tells him instead as he launches himself off the air conditioner, rain beating against his cape. “Now excuse me, there are a few more assassins who need to learn why Gotham can be an _unforgiving_ place.”

Just like him. They’re well matched, this city and him.

Maybe that’s why she likes him so much.

* * *

Tim’s easy.

It’s the same night in fact, and Damian’s sitting in Father’s chair, absently looking at the screen when his brother comes riding in on his bike.

Damian winces internally, already wishing he isn’t doing this. Tim’s mental state is unstable at best, falling apart at worst, and Damian’s read about what he has. This is only going to make it worse, but this is the best he’s come up with on short notice, and he knows what he’s going to say.

So he talks the talk, plays the footage, and tells his brother, “From where I’m sitting, it looks like _killing_ could be your specialty.”

Tim attacks after that.

Damian defends. He stops the staff, kicks Tim in the face, and ends up getting thrown through a uniform display case with Tim shouting, “You were a bit _psychotic!”_

No matter how much Damian feels like he’s about to lose his mind, no matter how much he wants to simply destroy everything that has ever caused him pain, because maybe then it won’t hurt as much, he has not been psychotic.

He can’t afford to be.

So he ends the fight with a few placed words, gets Tim to admit that the thought of killing crossed his mind, and then he’s alone in the Cave, blood on his face and the the words, “A Wayne and a Robin.” echoing around him.

Damian goes to bed, tired beyond belief, but triumphant.

He’ll collect his prize later, and radiation purrs in his chest.

* * *

Jason’s next.

But-

Damian considers the crowbar in his hands, heavy and weighted like a planet, and hesitates.

He…

Damian places the crowbar back on his desk.

He can’t do that to Jason.

So he turns around, and rummages through his things from the compound.

There’s one thing he has, a reminder of Jason that he’s held onto for years now, and he just-

It’s a good memory.

He gently lifts the photograph from his bag, running a finger across Jason’s face, sorrow filling his heart.

It was taken within the first years of them knowing each other, when Jason didn’t know about Tim, when he was there because he wanted to be, because he loved Damian enough to stay.

Damian hugs the frame to his chest, feeling tears prickle his eyes.

Jason’s laughing, head thrown back and eyes sparkling with Damian curled up under his arm, little five year old form perfectly able to fit. He’s grinning when this was taken, Damian knows, because he made Jason laugh until he started snorting and still couldn’t stop laughing, and somehow Damian found that funny enough to giggle at.

Damian’s fingers tighten around the wood.

He doesn’t want to give this up, he never has, but-

The alternative is worse.

Damian sucks in his emotions, feels the smallest pressure on the sky ease up, and stops his trembling the best he can.

He has to do this.

He’ll-

He’ll get it back.

Even-

Even if Jason doesn’t return it, Damian will steal it.

Damian nods, standing straight with the slightest shaking in his hands and goes to Jason’s safe house.

This will work.

_Tick. Tock._

* * *

Damian’s just placed the picture on Jason’s bed when the door opens.

“Hello, safe house.”

Damian jumps to the ceiling, clinging to the shadows, eyes glinting white in the darkness.

“Hello, bed. Hello, pillow.” Jason says from below, and Damian smiles lightly. Jason’s done that as long as Damian has known him.

Then Jason lifts away the red covers.

And the photo is revealed.

“...What the hell?” Jason breathes, eyes locked on his face.

Damian drops from above.

“I thought leaving that would shock you enough for you to let your guard down.” Damian sneers, twisting Jason’s jacket until it’s over his head and Damian kicks him in the chin.

“Demon-”

“I’m _not_ a demon.” Damian hisses, anger rising and light traveling up his veins as he kicks Jason into the wall.

He’s _nothing_ like those lowlifes

“Fine! Then-”

“Shut up.”

Damian’s voice is void. It’s flat, and it seems to draw Jason short.

They stare at each other from opposite sides of the room with the picture of happy times destroyed years ago between them and lost memories a bitter divide.

“When was that taken?” Jason finally asks when the silence got too heavy.

Damian closes his eyes behind his mask, grip tight on the handle of his sword. “...It doesn’t matter.”

But it does, _oh_ it does.

It matters so much.

“Damian-”

“I said it doesn’t matter!” Damian snaps, baring his teeth as he bends to pick it up. He stares at it for a moment before setting it down beside Jason’s helmet.

“It does-”

 _“No, it doesn’t!”_ Damian cries, launching himself at his brother.

It matters to Damian. _Only_ him. Never Jason.

 _Never_ Jason.

“When was it taken?” Jason roars, knocking the sword out of Damian’s grasp and pinning him to the floor.

“It. Doesn’t. Matter.” Damian growls and kicks Jason in the chest.

Jason stumbles backwards, a scowl forming as Damian scoots away until he bumps into the dresser behind him.

They’re both breathing heavily, looking at each other with world weary eyes, and this is going nothing like how Damian wants it to.

“Why was it taken, then?” Jason asks, and Damian leans his head back until it hits the wood of the dresser, laughing for everything its worth.

It’s a serious question, and Damian has no answer that will make any sense for this Jason.

Jason had told him that it’s because it shows how much they love each other, and Damian still believes that, even now with only one of their duo remembering.

But this Jason, right here and now, doesn’t know.

And Damian won’t tell him.

“Damian-”

Damian ends the fight with a blow to Jason’s head, a move taught to him by the man himself.

“Sorry, Jason.” He whispers as he tucks away the picture and grabbing the helmet that gives Red Hood his name.

He escapes out the window, and only his words linger.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

_(Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, to-)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always loved and brighten up my day and are saved in my Gmail.
> 
> Also! Here's my [Tumblr.](http://nikescaret.tumblr.com) Come visit and chat with me if you want!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Damian-”
> 
> It’s Jason, and normally Damian would welcome any touch from him, would hoard it selfishly in his memory, but-
> 
> But right now, his body is too small, his soul too big, and his power is trying to destroy everything around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit it. This is a filler chapter. Kinda.
> 
> THIS is the chapter where the family _finally_ gets a clue that _something_ is wrong with Damian, that something is bothering him, _that something is not okay._
> 
> Fucking finally.
> 
>  _But._ They won't find out because. Hey.
> 
> Who expects little Dami to be a cosmic god when he literally just seems like a confused baby assassin?
> 
> Not the batfam.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

Damian stares at the picture of the Joker.

He doesn't see that hideous face.

_If you haven't already noticed, kid, you're already wearing the “R” on your chest._

Damian grits his teeth, clenches his fist as he tries not to throw the case file at the door.

It's not that simple.

It never has been.

For Dick, for everyone else, it might be, but it's _not._

The escrima stick that hangs from the wall shouldn't be his, but it is.

Damian sighs and scrubs at his eyes. They sting and ache, but it's familiar.

He's tired, far too tired, but Dick's words still ring in his ears.

It's not-

Yes, he loves being Robin, loves being with Father and Alfred, but he didn't attack his family over the role of being Robin.

He just wishes that they understand that.

Damian's _done_ with being looked at like he's going to kill everyone, like he's going to suddenly snap.

He's _done_ with being called a demon, done with his name-his _first_ name, his only name-being said like it's a curse, like it's something he doesn't deserve, something that he has to _earn._

It’s his _name,_ it was given to _him._ It’s not something he should have to earn.

Damian's _done._

But right now the Joker's loose, and Damian refuses to wallow in his self-pity when the most insane being he's ever known is free.

He'll confront everyone later.

He'll-

Damian falls to sleep against Titus with his headphones in and the file spread around him.

He doesn't wake up until Father shakes his shoulder.

(He never gets the chance to have that discussion.)

* * *

The Joker captures them, the Joker captures _him._

He can hear the maniacal laughter, can feel Father’s terror, can feel Father’s anger-

He can feel the worry coming from everyone.

Damian blocks out everything.

Father rescues everyone, of course, but-

Damian thinks that maybe he should forgive Dick.

He could practically hear Dick’s thoughts, could see the way his eyes darted over to him constantly, could see how he pulled against his restraints.

Perhaps-

Perhaps he didn’t want to leave, after all.

Damian could accept that.

So once everything was calm, Damian went over to Dick and calmly said, “I no longer hate you.” and left.

He went to bed with a lighter heart and had better dreams.

He should have known nothing would last.

* * *

Damian sucks in a breath and knows that was a mistake.

Horror rises, fear grips, and suddenly he’s alone.

_(Tick, tock. How many more minutes until there’s no more time? How many minutes until you die? Tick, Tock.)_

“Father?”

_He’s not here anymore…_

His surroundings melt into the compound.

Jason stands in front of him, grin wide and eyes bright, and Damian laughs, feeling like he’s seven again.

“Jason, you came back.” He says, and Jason nods his head.

Jason opens his mouth, when everything winks out of existence, leaving him only in the stars.

He can’t see Earth.

He can’t-

“Where’s Earth!” Damian shouts, whipping around.

There’s nothing familiar.

Nothing familiar-

Damian _made_ the universe, _everything_ should be familiar.

Where is he?

Where-

A cruel laugh echoes.

_You’d think that you could ever be happy?_

“I can be! I can be, I _was_ happy-”

_(Am I already dead, have I already died-)_

Plasma bucks against him, knocks him down as he stares at his creations.

 _But what about when it_ **_ends._ ** _What then?_

“I’ll-I’ll figure it out-”

Matter burns, stars blind, planets crush-

_(Tick, tock! Tick, tock!)_

_You’ll go insane…._

“No! I won’t-I can’t-” Damian screams as the weight of his responsibility breaks his chest.

Wait, he shouldn’t have a chest-

_You almost did before, don’t you remember?_

Damian stops.

Did he-

“Did I?” He whispers, millions of years flashing behind his eyes.

Radiation giggles.

Why is everything turning against him-

The floor drops and he’s falling, falling with no end, and he’s sobbing, crying out for it to stop.

He feels so breakable, so mortal, and it terrifies him.

_(Tick, tock, tick, tock-)_

Asteroids hit his body, shatter his bones, and it _hurts,_ it hurts, oh it hurts.

_(Ticktockticktockticktock-)_

He wants his Father. He wants Jason. He wants Dick-

“Someone!” Damian howls and chokes as comets fill his throat, dirty and-

A hand.

Damian grabs it desperately, wishes that it’s one of his family, and let’s himself be pulled into a door.

He lands on his knees in front of Ra’s and Talia.

No, no, no, no-

“Damian.” Talia intones, and Damian feels a brief moment of gladness that she used his name- _his only name, his only name, why is it his only name-_ but that turns to terror when she hands him a sword and makes him face a little girl.

She’s weeping, wrists tied behind her back with zip ties and her feet the same, and she’s barely seven.

“Finish her, Damian. Prove your loyalty.” Ra’s says and his eyes are cold and unfeeling.

Damian throws the blade to the side and lunges for the little girl, the person he’s supposed to kill, and the sun cackles in his ears as the seconds pass.

He’s frozen in air, and Ra’s chuckles, standing from his throne.

The little girl- _what’s her name, what’s her name, what’s her story_ -only whimpers more as his grandfather grabs his sword and calmly walks in front of her.

“Don’t you dare-” Damian shouts, jerking against the hands of time.

It only tightens it’s grip.

“I'm only doing what you can’t.” Ra’s tells him, and Damian meets the little girl’s eyes, and she’s so scared, so so scared, and Damian can’t-

“I’m sorry.” He whispers a moment before her head lands against the ground.

Damian falls, and he curls up, tears filling his eyes as he breaks down.

_He couldn’t save her, he couldn’t save her, what use is he when he can’t save an innocent girl-_

Talia places a hand on his shoulder and the walls disintegrate under his grief, and his family is there, waiting in costume, and they’re here to save him, Damian knows-

But their faces are twisted into disgust and hatred.

“Father!” Damian shrieks-with joy or despair, he doesn’t know- and reaches out a hand.

He needs for it to be taken, needs to be pulled to his feet and to be able to stand by his family’s side, but it isn’t.

Father doesn’t step forward, Tim doesn’t, Alfred, Jason, Dick-

No one does.

Damian’s hand slaps against the wood.

 _(Tick, tock, tick tock._ A voice hums. _Tick, tock, Damian, tick, tock.)_

“Father?” He breathes, eyes locked on the family he chose, the family he loves with all of his heart, and feels something in his chest wither as they look away.

Stars fizzle out of existence, like the rejection caused them to die before their time.

“Father!”

_“Damian!”_

He’s being held.

Damian fights and fights and struggles, because he knows this chest, knows this Kevlar, and he’s terrified that it’s still a nightmare, still something that’s sickening and horrid as before, and he-

“Damian!” Hands grab his wrists, stopping his blows, and Damian peeks up.

Father is looking at him, face creased with worry, and Damian blinks, once, twice and glances around.

He’s-

He’s in Gotham.

He got struck by Crane.

“Father?” Damian says, and Father nods, pulling him into a hug.

It’s the kind of that only Father can give, big and warm and Damian buries his face in his chest, shaking with fear or relief that it’s finally over, neither one of them know, and they don’t give a damn, right then.

Damian isn’t sure how long they stay there in that warehouse with Crane unconscious next to them and Father simply holding him, and he doesn’t care.

Damian is just realizing what he fears the most, and he has his dad there with him, and so he doesn’t care.

* * *

“I heard you had a run in with Scarecrow.”

Damian regards Tim from his place on the couch.

“So I did.” He hums, shifting the blanket on his knees. He’s been reading a few books frantically without pause for the last day and it shows; there’s five thick novels lying on the ground in front of him and he’s halfway through another.

He hasn’t moved from this spot for a thirty-six hours.

“You, uh,” Tim visibly gathers himself and Damian watches, trying to keep his mind from wandering back to what he saw. “I heard that that you reacted really badly. Like, Bruce had to hold you down bad.”

Damian wonders how they thought he would react. Maybe paralyzed with fear? Perhaps vocal?

“I did not get the specifics.” He says instead, turning a page.

Tim scratches his arm and clears his throat. What he does when he’s awkward. Why didn’t Damian know this before?  “You ended up...screaming and Bruce couldn’t get a good angle to get you the antidote, so he had to hold you down because you were struggling so much.”

Damian skips a paragraph. “Fascinating.”

_(Darkness, his creations rebelling, blood red on sword-)_

“And you may be a demon-”

Damian snarls and slams the book shut. _“I am not a demon.”_

He could have easily become a demon in his past, could have become everyone’s worst nightmare just one hundred years ago, could still become one, but he is not one.

He has the potential.

That doesn’t mean he is one.

“...Yeah, okay, but-”

“Get out.”

Damian refuses to listen, not when-

 _(Save me, save me, take me away,_ **_please-_ ** _)_

-Tim does not believe him, will not stop, and he doesn’t-

Damian is just so tired and he wants to fall asleep and never wake up-

But wait, would that count as dying?

_(Tick, tock, tick, tock-)_

No, no, that would be a coma, right?

He wouldn’t be-wouldn’t be _dead,_ right?

“Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock-”

Damian’s saying it out loud.

“Damian, what are you talking about?”

“Tick, tock, tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.”

“Damian, you need to breath.”

“Tick, tock, tick, tock. One, two three, how many minutes until I die?” Damian says, and it’s like what he heard in Scarecrow’s hallucination, and Tim hurries over.

“Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.”

“Damian, calm down-”

 _“Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock-”_ Damian can’t seem to stop, can’t seem to quit saying it. It’s rhythmic, one two three, one two three, and he can feel the _tick_ and then the _tock_ in his bones, and-

“Shit, Alfred!”

There’s hands on his back, words that he can hear, but not comprehend, and all he can repeat is the countdown to his death.

“Master Damian, slow down those ticks and those tocks, and say them with me. Tick. Tock.”

That-That’s something that Damian can do, something that Damian can say. “Tick. Tock.”

It’s slower than the tick tocks that echo in his head.

“That’s correct. Tick. Tock.”

“Tick. Tock.” Damian says, feeling encouraged.

“Excellent work, Master Damian.”

“Alfred, what happened?”

That’s _Jason._

Damian’s heart seizes and he stops going as slow. “Tick, tock, tick, tock.”

_(Jason leaving, Jason coming back, Jason, Jason, Jason-)_

Gloved hands on his cheeks. Damian opens his eyes and there’s Alfred. Old and aged and wise, and staring at him, just him.

Damian looks Alfred in the eyes and breathes a bit easier.

“Shall we try that again, Master Damian?” He asks, and Damian nods shakily. “Good. Tick. Tock.”

“Tick. Tock.”

“Marvelous, Master Damian. Now, again. Tick. Tock.”

“Tick. Tock.”

Father enters at some point, and so does Dick, but all Damian can see is Alfred, and he falls asleep to that sight.

* * *

Damian wakes up in his bed, and that metronome is still going away in the back of his head, but he feels at peace.

He might want to draw solar wind.

With the way he could see light, could twist and bend it to his liking, he can see it.

_(They didn’t listen earlier, why would they listen now?)_

Damian shrugs the thought off. That was Scarecrow. He has complete control.

Damian looks down and clenches his fist.

Light shines and Damian basks in his control.

 _He_ controls.

They don’t do a damn thing he doesn’t tell them to.

Damian wakes up and he thinks his confidence is redeemed.

* * *

He’s banned from patrol.

Damian gapes as his father gets dresses, pulls the cowl over his head. “Father-” Damian starts, grabbing the cape to pull him back.

He’s halfway dressed for patrol, tunic and pants on, but nothing else, and Damian doesn’t understand why he can’t go out.

“You need a week off.” Father rumbles, looming and so much like a shadow, and Damian’s fingers slip from the cloth, eyes wide.

Father hasn’t done that in months.

“Father…”

Father sighs and kneels in front of him, gently grabbing his shoulders. “Damian, you got sprayed by Crane just a few days ago.” He gives his son a small shake, and Damian can see how his eyes are creased with worry, how his jaw is clenched. “Damian, I-”

_I can’t let you get hurt again. I can’t lose you to your mind again._

It goes unsaid, but Damian hears it as though it was shouted. Damian rests his head on his father’s shoulder, light and hesitant, and feels Father’s hands on his back and his head. “Fine.” He says, and maybe he feels his heart become less weighed down when Father buries his face into his hair and whispers a _thank you._

So Damian doesn’t go.

* * *

“Damian?” 

Dick.

Damian ignores him, moving his hand bit to the left. The moon turns just the right angle and the full radiance of it shines down. Damian breathes it in, lets his muscles relax. He’s been too wound up these last few days, far too tense, and he could feel it beginning to take a tole on the earth and the universe in general.

Tectonic plates have shifted, the stars shine a little brighter, and radiation has become more poisonous, even the good kind.

Damian thought of his family and how much he cares for them, and knew that he had to stop it.

“Damian.”

Jason.

Why-

“Hello.”  Damian says, and he taps his fingers against his thigh in the same rhythm as the tick tocks in his head.

_One, two. One, two._

Jason’s eyes are drawn to that, and so Damian has to stop. After his panic attack, he doesn’t want them to know anything.

“What do you want?”

Dick shifts in place, and Damian watches it with exasperation bordering on irritation. He really doesn’t wish to deal with this.

“We…”

“We just wanted to see if you were okay.” Jason says, taking the lead, and Damian suddenly feels exhausted.

Everything’s making him feel tired lately.

Something may be fucking up in his body.

Damian breathes through his nose, pats his leg _-tick, tock-_ and stands from his position on the ground.

It seems that his activity for tonight is canceled.

It seems that he can’t seem to do anything.

“I’m fine. Perfectly functionable.”

He might not be. Might not be, because all he seems to think now is how much of a disappointment he is, and he truly is, all he can think about is how hopeless he is, how much he has _failed_ to become human-

“Damian, just because you’re functionable doesn’t mean that you’re okay.” Dick’s on his knees in front of him, smile soft and looking like he wants to pull him into a hug.

Damian can’t stand physical contact right now; plasma’s burning underneath his skin, rolls and turns and a flare from a star is threatening to burst from his throat. Asteroids are beating against his bones, and the sun is spinning in his heart, blazing and heated, and-

“Damian-”

It’s Jason, and normally Damian would welcome any touch from him, would hoard it selfishly in his memory, but-

But right now, his body is too small, his soul too big, and his power is trying to destroy everything around him.

Light glows on his veins and the sky breaks above, a tiny crack that grows and grows, and his eyes smolder with the cosmos, and Damian needs to calm down _now, but they won’t go away-_

“Go away.” He croaks, and he shakes and trembles in place, and he can’t keep _doing this,_ can’t keep his emotions in their little box. He’s never felt anything like this, never felt anything like this before he became a human, and he doesn’t know how they deal with it.

Dick pulls him into a hug, pulls him into his chest, and Damian hits him until his knuckles ache and shouts until he’s hoarse, and Dick still doesn’t let him go.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Dick soothes, and Jason’s watching, and Dick’s rubbing his back and Damian breaks down into tears, cries into his brother’s shoulder, halting and shuddering, and Damian is so glad that they didn’t leave.

Jason comes up and allows Dick to grab him and include him in the hug, and Damian’s held between his two brothers in a comforting embrace, and his breathing comes slower and easier until he’s dropping off to sleep.

He misses the look that Dick and Jason exchange.

* * *

“Where’s the little bird?” Poison Ivy taunts, and Bruce grits his teeth, thinking of that little boy with shining eyes in the Batcave, looking up at him like he understood, like he has the world on his shoulders, and Bruce has to throw a bat-a-rang at a vine.

It beeps-one, two, three-and explodes.

Ivy screeches in outrage, and Bruce is barely paying attention.

He can only think of Damian, tiny Damian who always seem too mature and yet not, screaming on the floor of a warehouse, crying out for someone, anyone.

Bruce’s oath of not to kill was the only thing keeping his hand from ending the life of Crane.

Damian should never be doing that, never be-

He dodges the incoming thorns and shakes himself. He has to keep his head in the fight, otherwise he won’t come home, and Damian will be left without him _again._

He can’t do that to his son, can’t do that to his family. Not again.

“Looks like you need a hand.”

Bruce glances up, and Jason stares back, iconic helmet held under his arm.

“Help would be appreciated.” He grunts, blocking a plant with his gauntlet.

Jason rolls his eyes, slipping on his namesake and dropping down.

“Alright. But I need to talk to you.” He pauses, and Bruce inclines his head towards him. “About-about the kid.”

Bruce nods and they throw themselves into the fray, and through it all, Bruce is still thinking of that  boy with glowing irises and love so complete that it could cover the globe.

If Jason wants to talk about Damian, Bruce will talk about Damian.

* * *

“So?” Bruce crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing behind his mask.

Jason takes off the helmet and runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “There’s something wrong with him.” 

“There is nothing wrong with my son.” Bruce snarls, and Jason backs up.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant that there’s something he’s hiding, something that he’s keeping from us.” Jason tries again, and Bruce falls silent, cape whipping to the side in the wind.

“What do you think it is?” He asks, voice like thunder, and Jason shrugs.

“I don’t know.” Jason sighs, and looks down to the stone below. “I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always loved and brighten up my day and are saved in my Gmail.
> 
> Also! Here's my [Tumblr.](http://nikescaret.tumblr.com) Come visit and chat with me if you want!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Father?”
> 
> Father smiles, and Damian relaxes. It must be a stubborn case or something like that. He’ll find out later.
> 
> (Thing is, Damian doesn’t know how many “laters” he has left, how much time is left in this body’s lifespan. He doesn’t know if he will ever find out what’s bothering his parent, and it tugs at his thoughts.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the ending but.
> 
> I won't though.
> 
> And!
> 
> The batfam is arriving at conclusions that, well, are not entirely inaccurate, but they're missing the big picture.

When Damian wakes up, Father is watching from the doorway, costume still on and cowl pulled back.

Damian quickly sits up and says, “Good morning, Father.”

Father frowns, and Damian refuses to think it’s because of him. Must have been a difficult night, is all-Damian wasn’t allowed to listen in on the comms at Dick’s persistence and Alfred’s pointed stare.

Really. He’s banned from patrol, and can’t even stay alert of what is happening.

“Father? How was patrol?”

Father shakes his head minutely, and now Damian’s frowning.

Something is obviously wrong here.

“Father?”

Father smiles, and Damian relaxes. It must be a stubborn case or something like that. He’ll find out later.

(Thing is, Damian doesn’t know how many “laters” he has left, how much time is left in this body’s lifespan. He doesn’t know if he will ever find out what’s bothering his parent, and it tugs at his thoughts.)

“Shall we go get breakfast?” Damian asks instead, and Father nods, relief weighing his shoulders down.

“I should go get changed.” Father says, and Damian smirks.

“You should. Pennyworth will have no mercy if you show up at the table dressed like that.”

Father gives a small huff, looking him over once, and then again, lingering on Damian’s eyes before walking away. 

Damian’s left standing in confusion and sudden apprehension festering in his heart.

* * *

It seem that he was right to be cautious.

Damian gazes at the people sitting at his table and subtly shuffles back.

Too many people too early in the morning, and Damian had no warning, no signs to prepare.

He doesn’t know what the hell they’re here for, but Damian wants them gone _now._

“Hey, Damian!” Dick Grayson chirps, and Jason Todd inclines his head, and Tim Drake waves as a sign of hello.

Damian narrows his eyes. “Why are you here?”

Dick pouts, but Damian catches the glance he shares with his family, and that leaves Damian to wonder just what is going on.

“The old man invited us.” Jason says instead, and Damian looks over at him with surprise.

“And you came?”

Jason grins, but it’s more like a grimace, and it makes Damian flinch back, fingers tapping on his leg.

Tick, tock. Tap once, then twice. Rinse and repeat. 

Rhythmatic.

“Indeed he did, Master Damian.” Alfred breaks the silence that settled over the group as if it was merely wet paper, and not for the first time, Damian is glad for his boldness. “Now, why don’t you sit down.”

Damian takes his usual place, and stares at his siblings, puzzlement clear.

“But why did Father call you here?” He asks, and Tim hides a flinch.

“Damian…. He-” Dick starts, and Jason cuts him off.

“You're hiding something. Something big, and it's not good. We want to know what it is.”

Damian sits and stares, hands clenching on the table.

They-

Stars burst in his blood, and Damian doesn't stop the way his eyes glow.

“What?”

The wood cracks underneath his fingers.

Father sweeps into the room, and Damian's heart stops.

“We want to know what you're hiding.” Jason repeats, and Damian-

Damian flies to his feet, chair clattering behind him, and the molecules of the air around him vibrate.

“What I keep to myself is my own business. I would tell you if I felt the need to.” He says, and the countdown in his head goes _one, two,_ and Damian ignores it the best he can.

“Damian.” Father says, voice stern, and from the way Tim shrinks slightly, that was supposed to be intimidating or compel him to talk.

Damian locks his jaw instead.

He's older than everything, older than the universe itself. If Father thinks that he can make Damian tell, he has a completely different person in mind.

Damian is stubborn. Damian is patient. And Damian knows that he could simply walk away now and never return.

He pays no mind to how that idea makes something ache.

“No.” Damian says instead, and stands his ground against his family.

They don't need to know what he is.

And they certainly don't need to know about the tick tocks in his mind.

“I refuse." 

Damian leaves the room with an empty stomach and thoughts full of storms.

* * *

“That didn’t go well.”

“Well, what did you expect? Damian’s a defensive kid. He doesn’t tell you anything unless he wants to.”

“Still-”

“No. We don’t bombard him like that.”

“...What if we-”

“Let Dick talk. He knows Damian best.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” A pause. “So here’s what we’re going to do.”

* * *

Damian watches Father fight on the screen, adding in advice and warnings through the microphone on his headphones, and he notices the way Tim comes up from behind him.

“What do you want, Drake?” He asks, and winces internally as Father gets a crowbar to the arm. “Father, there’s five more headed your way, and they have assassin training.”

“Understood.” Father grunts back, and punches a thug into the wall and whirls around to catch a bat with his gauntlet.

Tim puts a hand on the back of the chair, and Damian is reminded of when he took Tim’s staff.

Damian tucks a foot under him and leans back, eyes narrowed as he sees Father grapple his way to the rooftop above, drug dealers tied up and unconscious. 

He presses a button and sends the coordinates to the police.

Tim’s still here.

Damian give a _-tt-_ and turns around, leg swinging an inch from the ground as he does so.

Sometimes, he truly hates his height.

“What do you _want?”_ Damian hisses, hackles rising.

He had yet another nightmare last night, he can’t go on patrol, and Tim is still here.

Dark matter growls in his throat, and Damian almost lets it come out.

Almost.

Tim shrugs. “I wanted to see the results of the analysis of the fear toxin.”

Damian frowns, the images of what he saw rising. “They’re over there.” He says instead, pointing at the file.

Tim should have known where they are.

Damian breathes through his nose and directs his attention to the screen again. “Father-”

Damian shoots to his uniform, frantically pulling it on because _Father is surrounded by assassins and Damian isn’t there-_

They’re aiming to _kill._

Damian simply _can’t_ lose his father again.

Just as he climbs on his motorcycle, Tim grabs his arm, and everything is weird, a sharp ringing in his ears, but Tim points to the screen, and Damian looks over and-

Dick is there, at Father’s back, and they’re beating Talia's operatives, and relief is a crippling thing in Damian’s chest.

He nearly falls to the ground with the weight of it crushing his shoulders.

“Da...Dami...Damian.”

Tim’s talking.

Damian blinks up at him, and his eyes are vacant and without thought, and Tim sighs.

“Damian.” 

Damian blinks again, eyelids heavier than a solid planet and the thought of Father and Dick coming home makes him straighten his back no matter how much it pains him and take steps towards the Batcomputer, each one feeling like it shatters the stone beneath him, and he stops only an inch before he touches the desktop.

Damian takes a breath and sits back down again, and Tim hops up on beside him, reading the file in his hands, and everything is silent for a moment.

“Damn, Crane got creative this time. We’re lucky that the antidote even worked.” Tim mutters, and it breaks the quiet.

“What do you mean?” Damian asks, raising his eyes to look at his older brother.

Tim turned the folder around. “Look-that component is the main thing in this." And suddenly Damian knew what Tim meant.

This fear toxin is more like a suicide gas.

Damian grips the armrests.

Tim falls still, letting Damian mull over his thoughts.

“So...if an antidote wasn’t delivered in time, the victim would die?” Damian finally ventures, and although he’s certain, he wants confirmation.

“Yep. They’d kill themselves.” Tim says grimly.

Damian leans back.

The second before Father had given him the antidote, he had been close to ending his life, no matter what the countdown said it was his time or not because everything was just too much.

“...It seems that I was saved just in time.” Damian finally says.

Tim’s head snaps up.

* * *

“Guys, Damian was close to killing himself.”

_“What?”_

“Dick, calm down. What-”

“The new formula for the fear toxin. Look at it.”

“...Oh _shit.”_

“Yeah. So I’m thinking that-”

“He’s...still thinking of doing it, isn’t he?" 

A shuffle.

“I think so.”

“It’s my turn anyways, so I’ll make sure.”

“...Thanks, Jason.”

A sigh.

“Hey, I don’t want the kid dead anymore than you do.”

* * *

Damian blinks.

“Jason, what are you-”

“I’m saying that we’re going on patrol together.” Jason says, helmet tucked under his arm.

“But I am banned from patrol.” Damian says.

Jason snorts, and Damian’s heart aches at the familiarity. “Yeah, like that’s ever stopped you before.”

Damian’s fingers itch to pull the hood of his jacket up in defense. “Yes, but-”

That was before this week.

Jason ruffles his hair, and Damian immediately claws at him, teeth bared.

“Alright, no touch.” Jason jokes, and slips on his namesake. “Get dressed and let’s go.”

Damian tilts his head a bit before nodding and heading off.

Jason watches him the entire time, and Damian times his stride to the tick tocks in his head.

He misses the way Jason counts them and frowns.

* * *

Damian throws himself into battle the moment he’s able, and Jason watches with his arms crossed.

It reminds Damian of those times when he was training and Talia was watching in front of him with cold eyes and expectations, but Jason was right behind him with encouraging words and a sharp grin and eyes the exact opposite of Talia’s.

A bullet slams into the stone next to his head, and Damian grabs the gun it came from, throws it to the ground and twists the man’s arm until he screams.

Damian drops him and gives a nerve pinch that makes him go unconscious.

Damian tells the police where to find them, and climbs his way to the roof, taking the hard way up, needing to feel that burn in his muscles.

Jason follows, and for the first time in months Damian is glad that he does.

But Damian fights and he gets hurt, gets injuries that could have been avoided, and it’s around three when Jason says, “That’s enough.”

Damian’s arms are aflame, and his legs are sore, but his heart is lighter and his mind is clearer as he falls asleep 

He doesn’t see the way Jason was watching him.

* * *

“Replacement right.”

“Fuck.”

“What confirmed it?”

“Always to the point, huh, Bruce?”

“Jason, just tell us!”

“Fine. He was reckless with his life out on the field.”

“Jason, you let him _out?”_

“Calm down, Dickiebird.”

“Dick, that was the best way to see if that was true.”

A low growl.

“There’s something else.”

Silence.

“....I’m going next.”

* * *

“Little D!" 

Damian’s tugged into a hug-it’s the kind Dick gives, and Damian relaxes.

“Grayson.” He says, and pulls away, arms crossed with a scowl firmly in place.

“I thought that we could watch a movie and get some food.” Dick says, and when he grins, his teeth catches the sunlight.

Damian gapes on the inside. How is it that the sun favors Dick more than him?

_Well._  He thinks as he’s dragged outside and stuffed into the car with complaints and snarls from him at the manhandling. _This is Dick Grayson._

Dick ends up taking him to see Captain Underpants and he laughs the whole time, and even Damian has a small smile and gives a huff of amusement at parts he finds particularly hilarious.

“Did you like it?” Dick asks as they leave, and he’s still eating the candy and sipping at his soda, and Damian feels the monster lingering just underneath his mind, the one that devours every single positive thought and spits it out negative-

He feels it falter for just a moment.

“Yes.” He says, and he feels triumphant that he managed that because lately-

Lately, it’s been so much harder to just say the truth. 

Dick gives him a smile, and takes him to eat pizza, and Damian’s day isn’t overshadowed by that countdown, and he falls asleep with the monster slain for the night and the cosmos churning above his head.

* * *

“So?”

“He’s...I’m pretty sure that he’s depressed. There’s more, but that’s the best I could get with what little time I had.”

“Fucking _fuck!”_

“Jason!” Sharp and unrelenting. “Damian could hear us!”

“Sorry for fucking caring!”

“I do care!”

“Shut up!”

The jumble of papers.

“Look, Damian has some issues, but right now we have another problem.”

“Grayson? Todd? Drake? Father?”

“Hey-”

“What are you all doing?”

Eyes span over the group.

“We’re just talking, don’t worry about it.”

A frown.

“We are!” A nudge.

“Damian, we were discussing a case.”

“Why do you need all four of you?”

“Because it is a case with a villain we all have experience with. And you need to go take Titus out.”

“Fine, Father.”

Door swinging closed. 

“...Bruce, you’re a lifesaver.”

* * *

Damian stands in uniform, more at home than he’s felt in a week, and Father is at his back as more assassins come.

“Father-”

“Robin, I know.” It’s soft, and Damian whirls around, foot hitting the side of his opponent.

He goes flying.

Father’s surrounded by the unconscious bodies of assassins, and the line of his lips is gentle, and Damian sprints into the next battle, and Father follows.

Damian is at peace, and he thinks that everything will be fine, just so long as this continues.

* * *

Talia is going to attack.

Damian sucks in a breath as he watches the army Talia amassed march their way to Gotham.

All of this just to...

“Tick, tock.” Damian murmurs under his breath, and his heart pounds and a supernova shudders in his chest.

A hand settles itself on his head.

Damian looks up and Father is looking down at him, and Dick is smiling, and Jason is right behind them with a gun, and Tim is analyzing the screen for weaknesses, and Alfred is coming down the stairs with a tray tucked under his arm.

“It’ll all be okay. We’ll beat them back, and no one will get hurt.” Dick says, and Jason nods.

“Least of all you.”

* * *

Damian tries to believe it but-

But this is Gotham. 

And Damian can’t let his family fight alone, and so he goes out, and the tick tock grows bigger.

* * *

Everything goes to shit.

Nothing is like what he wants, nothing is like what he wishes for, and Damian-

Damian blinks tiredly as yet another opponent charges forward, and deflects their attack with a flick of his fingers.

Nobody's around, and he’s so fucking war-weary that he can’t be bothered to care if any cameras caught it.

The tick tock in his head is the loudest it's ever been, a crashing bang against his ears, and Damian knows that today he will die.

He…

He's not ready to leave Earth, leave this life behind. He's not ready to go back to the silence, to his isolation among the stars, to a life without Alfred and Father in the same house, to a life without any of his family near.

He's not _ready,_ and Damian doesn't think he ever will be.

But-

But that very same family is fighting for him, and he has to fight too, has to fight because he might lose any of them today, and if he's going to die, he will do it saving those he loves.

So here he is, exhausted beyond relief, and just wanting to sleep, not even lifting his sword, when he sees-

“Grayson!”

The name tears itself out of his throat and he runs towards his brother, towards his clone, and the countdown grows impossibly louder.

Damian's arms are shaking and he can barely stand, but he's not going to sit idly by and let someone who shares his DNA but not his memories, not his _powers,_ hurt his family.

“Look at me!” He shouts, and then he has the Heretic baring down on him, and he has arrows in his skin and stars bursting in his chest, and he bares his teeth without a care for his life as he pounces.

Talia is near by, watching and waiting, and Damian grins, bloody and wild, and with radiation infecting his breath as he says, “Are you too cowardly to kill me yourself?”

Dick is unconscious on the ground behind him, and there's a echoing _tick._

Suddenly he's backed into a corner with no idea how he got there, and though she's long lost the title, Damian pleads with her. Just once.

It's the first time he's ever done it.

“Call him off… Mother…”

There's no reply, no actions to show she even heard him.

Damian tries to leap over the Heretic's head, tries to get more ground because he's too tired, too hyped up on adrenaline to safely use his powers so he can't just incinerate his clone, but there's a sword and-

_Tock._

He has a sword in his chest.

Damian's mouth falls open as pure agony wrecks his mind, and for a single moment, everything blanks out.

He's vaguely aware of falling to the ground, and there's no more tick tocks in his head.

“Goodbye.” He manages to Dick, to everyone, and his cape falls over his face just as he closes his eyes and his heart stops.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick wants to scream, wants to hunt Talia down and make her _bleed,_ bleed the same amount Damian had, make her experience the same pain Damian felt-
> 
> Dick shakes himself.
> 
> Damian wouldn't want him to do that.
> 
> Dick clings to that thought, that Damian would want better for him, because otherwise Dick would cross that line and never return.
> 
> Damian _loved_ him so much, so fucking much, and Dick had _never_ deserved that love, never _ever_ deserved it, and now-
> 
> Now Damian's dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Prepare for sad shit.
> 
> Also there might not be a update next week-I think I need to take a break, but we'll see. The muse commands my fingers, after all. ;p
> 
> Buuuut, enjoy!

Talia leans forward and places a hand on the console, watching as her son falls to the ground, a gaping hole in his heart.

Talia loves Damian.

She tells herself that everyday, and tries to convince herself that whatever she does is for his own good.

She doesn't know how this helps him.

“Lady Talia?”

Talia nods without looking away from the screen. “I'm fine.”

Ever since he was born, Damian always seemed too big, too old.

He always seemed too _smart._

He used to look at her with ancient eyes and that more than anything drove her to seek out the best teachers.

(The only time he ever really acted around his age was when Jason was with them.)

But Talia watched as Damian grew stronger and faster, until suddenly he wasn't her little boy anymore-he was something _different._

Suddenly, Damian was no longer the toddler that insisted on taking care of Jason.

Suddenly, Damian was just Damian, dangerous and _powerful._

She had lied to him. Damian wasn't replaceable.

His clones don't have the same glint in their eyes, the same passion and cautiousness.

They have his DNA, but they don't whatever it is that makes Damian _Damian._

Talia feels her knees try to buckle, and she locks them in place, expression hardening.

Damian is dead, at her instructions, and this is a fact she has to live with her entire life.

 _But,_ she thinks she as she retreats. _At_ _least she still has his clones._

They are a poor imitation, but she still has part of her son.

And Talia pretends that's enough.

(The woman from years ago, the woman who saw Damian and held him in her arms for but a second and _loved_ him with everything she had, shrieks with grief and Talia buries her until she stops.)

* * *

Damian is dead and somehow everything is dark.

Dick stares at the wall, phone clutched in his hand as he sees the light become less illuminating.

Dick pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knees.

Dick hadn't noticed it, but when Damian came into his life, suddenly everything was vibrant, was colorful, and Dick remembered how he looked at the world when he was ten.

Now- 

Now Damian's gone and everything is _dull._

Dick drops the phone and buries his face in his jeans.

“Why?”

It's something that's been circling around in his mind, a constant question, and he's no closer to the answer than he was yesterday.

Why him? Why Damian?

Dick chokes on a sob. Damian died saving _him,_ and Dick-

Dick wants to scream, wants to hunt Talia down and make her _bleed,_ bleed the same amount Damian had, make her experience the same pain Damian felt-

Dick shakes himself.

Damian wouldn't want him to do that.

Dick clings to that thought, that Damian would want better for him, because otherwise Dick would cross that line and never return.

Damian _loved_ him so much, so fucking much, and Dick had _never_ deserved that love, never _ever_ deserved it, and now-

Now Damian's dead.

The phone rings and Dick blindly picks it up, tears finally stinging his eyes.

“Hello?”

“Dick.”

Jason.

Dick drops the phone and ignores the way Jason yells his name.

Damian is dead and nothing matters.

Nothing.

* * *

Dick buries himself in vigilante work, tries to forget about his misery.

Damian is always there at the forefront of his mind and Dick can't-

He can't-

“Hey, lookie here!” A Gotham accent.

Dick doesn't look up, collapsed in the ground as he is. Damian would be scolding him, hissing at him to _stay alert, damn it._

Dick smiles brokenly.

He misses the way Damian would do that.

The end of a gun lifts his chin, and Dick looks into the face of a crook that he's put away before.

A sneer grows on the man's face, and he calls his friends over with a wave of his large hand.

Dick simply sits and stares as they surround him.

“It's Nightwing!” One says with alcohol staining his breath.

“Where's Robin?” Another asks.

Dick shuts his eyes, feeling sick.

He was the one who gave Damian that title.

“Idiot, Robin died.” The leader hisses, and Dick flinches, not even hiding it.

All he can see is Damian with blood on his costume and no heartbeat, bright green eyes closed forever, and the echo of _Look at me!_ rings in his ears.

“Aw, is little Nightwing sad?”

_Yes._

“Does he miss tiny Robin?”

_Yes._

Dick nods his head, and ugly laughter erupts from the men around him.

“Well, too bad cause Robin's _dead.”_ A laminated paper is shoved in his face and Dick leans back to look at it.

“And I have a picture.”

It's-

“How-” Dick starts, shaking from rage or despair, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care.

“Let's just say I know some people.” The leader says and he drops the photo in Dick's lap.

Dick scrambles away from it, sorrow eating away at his heart and mind, because-

Because that was a picture of Damian, on the ground with a manic smile on his face, blood bubbling on his lips, and Dick-

Dick snaps.

 _How dare they?_ he snarls, and he doesn't know if he says it out loud or inside his head.

All he can see and all he can hear is these men's grins and laughter over _his brother's death._

Everything is covered in red, and Dick only stops when he realizes that it's not just his vision-his hands are literally red.

The thugs are beaten within an inch of their lives at his feet, and that picture is still on the ground.

Dick stumbles back until he hits the wall, and he sinks to the ground.

He tells the police where to find him and waits.

It's raining. Dick isn't crying. 

It's just raining.

* * *

Dick doesn’t know how long he stayed there, head between his knees and breath shuddering in his chest, but Tim finds him before Gordon.

“Hey, Tim.” Dick croaks, and his lips lift into a grotesque parody of a grin.

Tim sighs and drops from above. “Dick, what are you doing?” He asks, and Dick suppresses a flinch.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, come on.” Tim says, gently sliding an arm around Dick’s shoulders.

Dick lets himself be pulled to his feet, and all he can feel is the gaping hole in his chest where Damian used to be, and he can’t-

“Why’d you beat them so bad, anyways?” Tim eventually says after a moment of painful silence.

“They just-they just kept on _laughing.”_ Dick replies, and his voice is full of anger and misery. “They kept on laughing about his death, and they had a _picture,_ and Damian just looked so-so sad and _hurt,_ and he-”

Dick’s throat closes up and he can’t speak anymore.

Tim lets go when they’re on the rooftop, and Dick crumbles to the stone below.

“I just-”

How can he explain it? How can he explain how he feels about Damian? How can he explain how much Damian affected his life, how he thinks?

How-

Dick's being hugged.

“Dick, it's okay.” Tim whispers, and Dick finally breaks, clutching his younger brother's back and crying into his chest.

“Damian's dead, Tim.” He says, and it tears out of his chest with claws, leaves him breathless and with an aching wound that no amount of stitches can fix.

“I know.”

“He's _dead.”_

“I know…”

“My Robin's dead, and he-”

Dick can't finish the sentence, and his back bends into an arch as he howls his pain to the world.

Damian's fucking _dead._  

And Dick doesn't know what to do.

* * *

Tim…

Frankly, Tim doesn’t know what the hell he can do.

Damian’s dead, has been dead, and it’s tearing his family apart.

Tim doesn’t have that pull in his gut, that urge, that instinct in his mind saying _he’s not dead, you just have to go find him._

Tim simply doesn’t know how he can help.

Bruce is quietly going insane, down that dark hole he was in when Jason died, and this time, Tim can’t save him.

Bruce has been destroyed, been torn from his youngest son, and Tim can’t be there, can’t become his Robin again.

Damian deserved that title-it’s a symbol of hope, of a new beginning, and it represented Damian’s future.

Tim can’t steal it.

So here Tim sits, grieving and stuck between a rock and a hard place.

He stares at Damian’s grave, and has to ask.

“Why did you leave?”

Damian was _his,_ he was family, and he touched Tim’s life in so many ways Tim hadn’t even noticed until he was gone.

When Tim turns around in the Batcave, he expects to see Damian training, or playing with his pets, or-or _something._

But he’s not there.

So Tim runs.

He’s there for his family when he needs to be, but he can’t-

He’s lost so many people, in so many different ways, and he just can’t deal with Damian’s death, the way that he said _Goodbye_ as he died, the way that he smiled as life deserted him like a coward running from a fight.

Tim just can’t.

“Tim?”

Tim grinds his teeth as he swings his staff at the head of a two dime thug. It hits, and he drops dead to the ground.

“What?” He snaps, grappling his way to a roof.

“Tim, come home.”

Dick.

Tim rolls his eyes and leaps to another rooftop.

“No. I have duties with the Titans, and I’m going with them right after this patrol.”

“Timothy Jackson Drake!”

Tim flinches at his full name. Dick must be _pissed_ if he’s using that.

But...But he wasn’t going to give in. Gotham is full of painful memories, and right now Tim doesn’t want to poke them, doesn’t want to upset them.

“I said _no.”_ Tim grits out, and pulls out his communicator to call Kon.

“Tim-" 

“Bye, Dick.”

* * *

“Tim?”

Tim’s head tilts up, brow furrowing as Kon throws himself onto the couch next to him. “What?”

“Dude, you haven’t been answering Dick. Or Alfred.” Kon shoots him a concerned look. “You okay?”

Tim gives a tired smile and messes with a part of his segmented cape. “...I’m fine.” At his best friend’s doubtful gaze, he adds with a little force, “Really.”

Kon blows out a breath that sounds exasperated, and Tim raises an eyebrow, because what was that for?

“Tim, it’s fine if you’re not okay.” Kon says, and Tim-

Tim leans into his friend’s side and buries his face in his shoulder, and he cries.

It hurts, and a part that Tim’s thought that’s been dead for years now _aches,_ and Tim barely manages to shush the way it howls.

Kon rubs his back, and somehow Tim’s pulled into a hug that’s all encompassing and warm,  and it’s just so _Kon_ that Tim’s breath shudders, and he somehow feels like he can survive this, that he can get through this loss.

At the thought, Tim clings tighter to Kon, and he doesn’t want to let go, because right now Tim thinks that Kon is the only thing keeping him from falling apart, and Tim can’t make his family lose another person so soon. 

He isn’t that selfish.

* * *

The Manor is quieter, these days.

Alfred brushes the duster over a photo and restrains his tears.

Before, it was filled with a child’s footsteps echoing in the halls, a voice that rang bright and true, and a father following his son, exasperated and loving and everything in between.

Now, it’s only the father walking the house, no little boy running in front, and it’s quiet.

Alfred grips the duster tighter in his hand and moves onto a small bronze figurine.

Damian’s pets have been inconsolable-even now Alfred could hear Titus’ whines for Damian, and Alfred the Cat’s mews for his owner’s gentle hands.

Alfred closes his eyes as he reaches the unfinished family portrait.

Damian’s young face stares back at him, lips lifted in a small smile and a sparkle in his painted eyes that makes the tears stinging Alfred’s eyes finally fall.

His hand shakes and he doesn’t hear Bruce come up from behind him.

Alfred wants to say something, anything, but he finds that he can’t.

Damian always left devastation in his wake, and the fact that he died doesn’t change the fact that he did.

Devastation is wrecking the family the boy so loved, and Alfred can merely watch as the father who lost one of his sons yet again walk away with the painting, feet falling heavy on the marble below and Alfred thinks that it should fracture underneath the weight of his sorrow, like he once thought that the Earth itself should shatter when Damian once strode across it’s surface.

It doesn’t, and Alfred clenches his fist in both heartbreak and rage.

* * *

Bruce knows that he’s acting irrationally, that he’s taking unnecessary risks.

Bruce knows this and yet-

And yet, he can’t seem to stop it.

All he can remember is Damian. Small, tough, and his _son._

He’s lost Jason before, almost lost all of his family at least five times, and yet this death hits like a punch to the gut, like the shock of electrocution.

It hurts, it aches, and all he can say is _he deserved better, he deserved more._

And it’s true.

Damian _did_ deserve more.

He deserved a united family, a mother that didn’t abuse him and a father that wasn't absent for a decade of his life.

He deserved so much, and yet got so little, and Damian _trusted him._

Damian trusted him so unconditionally, was ready to die for him, and Bruce was the same-still is the same.

Bruce sets his jaw and grabs the cowl, the symbol on his chest heavier than ever. 

Damian had drawn his Batman uniform, and it was just so different and so him, that Bruce had smiled, had ruffled his son’s hair, and suggested some additions, like little bat symbols on his wrists, and Damian had scowled at him, but had thrown on some anyways.

But it feels like the mark is trying to the fracture his spirit, and all Bruce wants to do is tell it that it’s already been broken, that it’s in pieces on the floor, and Bruce isn’t trying to repair it.

All he’s waiting for is for it to be swept away in the horrible tide of Gotham, the city that’s ripped Bruce from so many of his loved ones, and Bruce has no doubt that if he waits long enough, he will be eaten alive by the damned that rest in the city’s bones.

Bruce wonders if he’ll go without a fight, no will left for living rattling around in his body. Wonders if he’ll just give up for once in his life and let Gotham pull him under, pull him into the ground with sweet whispers of relief and fake apologizes.

Wonders if he’ll believe them, even after years spent knowing just how rotten Gotham is.

Bruce glances over at the passenger seat in the Batmobile, and sees Damian, red tunic and yellow cape blazing like the sun, and the small flash of teeth as Damian tries to hide his grin is the moon.

Bruce closes his eyes and breathes.

In, out. In, out. 

When he opens his eyes again, Damian’s gone.

* * *

Jason keeps watch from a safe distance as Bruce tears through drug dealers with a brutality saved for the Joker and alien invaders.

“Damn...Losing the kid really drove him over the edge, didn’t  it?” Jason says lowly, and he refuses to ponder if this is what happened to him while Jason was dead.

Nobody dares to shout for help when Batman leaves, cape brushing against the ground as quiet as a murmur, and they still don’t until ten minutes later.

Jason follows his maybe-not father and doesn’t help as he makes a reckless deal in a store, and he doesn’t stop Barbara from jumping down onto the ground.

He’s only making sure that Bruce doesn’t die.

Gotham can’t lose Batman again, and Jason cares for those under his protection.

Last time Batman was gone, they got hurt.

Jason won’t let it happen again.

(He ignores the fact that Bruce is going into fights with no semblance of a plan worries him, worries him so much that he’s using the disguise of business to make sure that Bruce doesn’t end up dead.)

Bruce is leaving his right side open.

Jason curses, yanks out a gun, and lines it up with the arm of a robber, ready to pull the trigger.

Bruce whips around and smacks the guy into the wall and Jason relaxes his arm, a small puff of air making it’s way out of his nose.

Bruce is starting to scare him.

Jason makes sure Batman gets home safe and stares at the smog covered sky, remembering the way that Damian used to light up when he could see the stars, the way that glint in his eyes grew and grew until Jason felt like he should be a meta that dealt with the cosmos.

A pang of grief drives it's way into his heart, and Jason’s fist makes the leather glove sing with protest as he tightens it.

Damian’s dead, and everything is ready to collapse at the slightest push.

Jason takes off his helmet and runs a hand through his hair.

Jason won’t let it, he decides as he clenches his hand in his hair at the base of his neck. 

Damian sacrificed himself to make sure that Dick wouldn’t die; the least Jason can do is make sure that his family doesn’t crumble to the ground.

* * *

_He’s on top of a building, the stars twinkling above him as the wind whistles in his ears, a sharp promise of coldness soon to come._

_A small boy sits next to him, his black hair tickling Jason’s skin as he wraps an arm around his small shoulders._

_“What’s up?” He asks without looking, already knowing who it was._

_A change in angle, and his little brother is leaning against his chest. “I just wanted to take a break and eat.”_

_Jason hums, the noise rumbling in his chest, and says, “I’m guessing your dick of a teacher didn’t let you?”_

_A nod, and Jason curls his arm closer so that his brother’s face is hidden in Jason’s shirt._

_“When was the last time you ate?”_

_A mutter, and Jason frowns, gazing down at the birdlike shoulders that suddenly seems less healthy and more frightening._

_“I didn’t hear you.”_

_“I said this morning.”_

_Jason processes this and plucks the boy up as he stands, settling him on his hip. “Why didn’t you tell me, little man?”_

_“He said that this is how he’s always trained his students and that Mother didn’t mind.”_

_Jason bares his teeth, feeling protectiveness and bloodlust rise in his blood._

_“Well, I mind. Let’s get you some food, okay?” He asks, and it’s not really a question._

_“...Okay.”_

_Jason leaps off the roof, tiles shaking as he leaves stable ground, and lands with his brother still in his arms, and he’s thinking of ways to kill the man who dared harm his family, and he smiles softly as the boy wearily lifts his head and watches as a plate of food is placed in front of him._

_“Tell me if something like this happens again.” He orders, and the child swings his head up, still chewing. Jason gently takes the spoon and sets it on the table. “Swallow before you speak.” He says, and the small boy obliges._

_“Why?”_

_Jason tugs him into a hug, and rests his chin on the head of black. “Just do it.”_

_“Fine.”_

_“Thank you, Da-”_

Jason opens his eyes with an odd combination of joy, despair, and, oddly enough, a contentness that he’s only felt when he was with Bruce during his Robin days thrumming in his veins.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardians are simply looking at him with ancient eyes, and Damian clenches his fist.
> 
> What did they know?
> 
> They’ve-they’ve never had to deal with dying, never had to deal with losing one of their brothers, never had to confront the agony of their family not remembering them-
> 
> They know _nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you guys enjoy this longer than normal chapter!!!
> 
> I felt kinda bad last week when I didn't update, so i worked really hard on this.
> 
> And the whole Jason with Bruce part was so totally stolen from the comics but who cares!
> 
> Certainly not me.

_“Jason!”_

_Jason jerks around, barely missing a blade to the neck. “Yeah?”_

_“You said we were going to spar today!”_

_“Well, I’m kinda in the middle of-”_

_Small feet land on his teacher, and she goes sprawling to the ground. “Now can we spar?”_

_Jason shakes his head at his little brother’s antics and says, “Okay.”_

_He’s immediately attacked._  

_“Oh ho, going for the element of surprise?” Jason asks with a laugh as he ducks._

_“Yes.” The kid grits out, and Jason grabs him by the legs, tugging him down to earth and relentlessly tickling his sides._

_“How’s that for element of surprise, eh-”_

Jason opens his eyes to see Tim beside him, tapping away at a laptop.

“Fuck.” Jason hisses, and runs the the dream over in his head.

They’ve been too vivid lately, too detailed.

Jason can feel the desert sun shining on his skin, and can still feel the squirming little boy in his arms, can still hear his breathless giggles.

They have to be memories.

They simply have to be.

The child’s name is on the tip of his tongue, just below the surface, and right now Jason would give anything to remember it.

Jason loves this little kid in his dreams so much, loves him so completely that it feels like he’s suffocating, and the absence of him by Jason’s side is something that he feels keenly.

He has to to know him.

He has-

He has to find him, has to make sure that he’s okay, make sure that he knows that Jason loves him, has to know that Jason hates himself for forgetting him.

Jason rubs his forehead as his emotions crash into each other, creating a pounding headache that bangs away against his skull, and his heart constricts at the double loss in his life.

“Jason? You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason sits up, and he’s immediately assaulted by a memory.

_“Jason!” Horrified green eyes stare at him, and Jason waves a hand tiredly._

_“I’m fine.”_

_“No, you’re not-Adena! Get in here!”_

_Jason groans as blood moves sluggishly out of the wound on his chest. Yeah, okay, he isn’t fine._

_“I’ll be okay.”_

_His brother looks unconvinced._

_“Seriously!” Jason insists, and-_

He’s slapped.

Jason blinks as Tim retracts his hand, gaze wary. “What the hell was that for?” He grouses, rubbing his cheek.

“You blanked out and were scratching your arms.” Tim’s face creases with worry, and Jason frowns, because why didn’t he feel the pain? “Jason, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Jason sighs, and stands up.

He has a purpose now, something to distract him from the grief of losing another, and he can only hope that his baby brother is alive. 

If he isn’t, Jason doesn’t know what he’ll do.

* * *

Damian doesn’t wake up, precisely.

Instead, his awareness spreads throughout the cosmos, a steady reach of power until it was the way it was before, and that’s when he wakes.

He doesn’t have a body; Damian had never had one before being born as a human, and before he had gotten used to it, it felt...constricting. Like a steel trap against his chest, or hundreds of gallons of water pressing down against him until he couldn’t breathe.

But now…

Now, it feels odd to be without a body, without fingers and legs and a heart beating steadily in his ears.

It feels odd, and so the first thing Damian does is cautiously form a body.

It doesn’t feel the same, and so he dismisses it, scatters it across the stars with a flicker of a thought.

The form isn’t warm like his mortal one, isn’t restricted by muscles and lungs desperately needing oxygen.

It isn’t the same, and so Damian tries his best to get used to the way it was.

An ever growing web of consciousness, a continuously complex system that increases with every flicker of a thought, something that’s invested in every non-living object; that’s the way he once was.

Damian knows now that the way he used to be is not normal, not by any standards, but it’s instinctual.

He did not have many emotions before; how could he, when his only companions were Death and his creations?

Perhaps, he muses, and a planet sends out a twinge of discomfort. Perhaps a part of himself was locked away, some portion of his mind hidden, because now-

Because now, he does feel emotions, many of them in fact.

They are not as strong as when he was a human, and he doesn’t think they ever will be, but they’re manageable now because of it.

Damian decides, on a whim, to visit the Guardians. 

It will certainly add some excitement to his existence.

* * *

Jason retraces his steps.

When he woke up at Talia’s was there a boy?

He thinks about it, hand on his chin as he stands in his kitchen, attention anywhere but the case he should be working on.

Jason’s phone rings, and he barely hears it, overcome with images of bright green eyes and a small smile, a young voice calling his name, and he only picks up because it’s vibrating.

“What?” He asks absently, adjusting a photo that hangs from the wall.

“I need you to come in.”

Tim.

Jason scowls and hangs up.

He can’t, now right now.

His little brother is waiting for him, has been waiting for him, and he won’t relent his mission until he’s found him and brought him home. 

Heaven knows what he’s had to endure while he’s been gone.

* * *

Damian touches down in front of the Central Power Battery with barely a sound.

This body is still too cold, too quiet, but it’s better than nothing.

He looks around, feet falling on the ground with little taps that bounce off the walls as he walks, waiting for someone to notice him.

The Guardians finally do when he stops in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

His hood brushes against his forehead.

“Hello, Guardians.” Damian says, voice echoing in the silence.

He knows that his mere presence must be overwhelming, must be crushing with no mortal body.

Strangely, he finds some subtle amusement at it.

“Y-” One starts, shaking minutely, and Damian snaps his fingers. The air immediately becomes stifling with heat, but Damian doesn’t feel it.

He laughs a bit under his breath.

Somehow, this just made his audience more terrified.

Maybe it’s the way his voice has a double layer to it, one of a ten year old boy with Gotham in his voice and Middle Eastern adding some flavor, and the other of a being with unimaginable power, and billions of years in his life span that just keep expanding in number.

“Why are you here?” A Guardian asks, and while they are immortal, they have no control over him, and never have.

Damian will be here long after they disappear and was there when they first came into being, and they _know that._

“I just wanted to say hello.” Damian says, and gives a gentle knock on the stone was behind him.

Cracks rise and go below, and the Guardians can only watch as it forms a tree.

“Don’t worry. This place won’t fall.” Damian assures them and waves a hand over it.

Immediately, the wavering wall stabilizes, and the wall colors itself to show a old, wise tree.

Damian smiles at it, and he knows that the Guardians can see the flash of white of his teeth. “Isn’t life beautiful?”

He starts to walk towards them, fingertips brimming with energy, and their hall’s suddenly illustrated with moving pictures, and he relishes in their shock, and pretends that it’s a good replacement for the way that his family used to look at his drawings, the way that he could recreate a scene that was only there for a moment.

This has to be enough, because Damian isn’t going back.

“Maybe...Maybe you need to remember that.” Damian says softly, looking over at a painting with Dick Grayson sobbing on Tim Drake’s shoulder.

His non-existent heart aches.

Dick should not be crying, should not be doing that. Damian wishes it away with barely a thought.

The Guardians are simply looking at him with ancient eyes, and Damian clenches his fist.

What did they know?

They’ve-they’ve never had to deal with dying, never had to deal with losing one of their brothers, never had to confront the agony of their family not remembering them-

They know _nothing._

The ceiling groans as it starts to bend, and they’re still-still-

Damian closes his eyes and vanishes.

On the floor, there’s words carved into the stone.

 _My name is_ **_Damian._ ** _You’d better use it._

* * *

Jason breathes slowly.

This boy-he’s been trained by the best, even if Jason can’t remember who his mom is.

Jason had reached out to his contacts in the underworld a week ago, told them to look for a child with black hair, brown skin, green eyes, and _intense_ training under his belt.

So far, he hasn’t gotten any news.

Jason grits his teeth and lines his gun up with the kneecap of a particularly nasty fish that’s been dealing to kids.

All Jason can see is a bright grin, strong little arms that could break a person, and what could happen if he got hooked on drugs because the little shit’s too fucking trusting.

Jason sets his jaw and pulls the trigger. 

He’d better remove the scum before his brother comes.

* * *

The physical form he’d created has long since dissolved into the stars, and instead of a heart, it’s the pulse of a million different things that run through his mind, a combination of planets and atoms and so many others that Damian can barely remember the names of it all.

But there’s a specific thread, a certain thump that Damian’s been paying attention to.

Earth.

So while Damian’s been attempting to forget his family-which he’s _failed_ to do, because the memories are so much more _clear_ than the rest of his life, and the emotions that go with it are so much more _vivid-_

But.

But when the Earth cries out in pain, Damian is there.

He forms his body, and he feels dead, but he needs hands.

(It’s peculiar need; before, he never wanted hands, and now he needs them.)

Earth is screaming, and after ten long years tuned into it, Damian can tell instantly what’s wrong.

He cups Earth in his hands, blows a breath onto her surface, and soothes her pain.

She’s had to go through so much in recent years-Damian can hardly blame her for wanting a relief it.

So he fixes her up; removes some the excess gas that humanity has caused, gently freezes the polar ice caps again, and made her tougher than before, because he likes her.

Perhaps, one day, he’ll come back.

Once she’s lulled to sleep, Damian glances fearfully at his family, floats above their heads with a terrified grip on his mind, and he can merely watch as they fall apart.

 _I’m fine._ He wants to tell.

 _I’m alive._ He shouts as Father makes yet another reckless deal.

 _Stop, please!_ He begins as Jason drifts away, searching for a boy long gone and refusing to give himself time to mourn.

 _You’re going to_ **_die! Stop it!_ ** He pleads as Tim throws himself into vigilante work with hardly any care for his safety.

 _Stop blaming yourself, it was my decision, I did it to_ **_save you, please STOP-_ ** He can't finish as Dick suppresses his grief and Alfred stays silent in his guilt and sorrow.

Damian buries his face in his hands, and he wishes that he could sob, but he can’t.

He wishes, oh how he wishes that he can, because maybe then this hurricane of emotions would drain out tear by tear, drop by drop.

But he can’t.

Just like he can’t tell the ones he loves that he’s okay, can’t stop them from shattering into a million different pieces.

The only thing he can do is ignore them.

He can’t manage to make himself do it yet. 

(In those moments, he's felt more human than he has in months, and he wants to laugh because somehow his family manages to make him feel more and become more like them even when he's gone.)

* * *

Jason trips over a chair and falls into a memory.

_“Jason?”_

_Jason looks up from, and there his baby brother is, and a smile grows on his face before he freezes._

_“What-”_

_“Mother said that if I manage to end this target I could get an hour of less training for the rest of the week.” The child explains, wincing as he shifts on his feet._

_The sword hanging limply from the four year old’s hand clatters to the floor, scarlet dripping from the blade._

_Jason's already at his brother's side before he finishes the sentence._

_“Jesus Christ, kid.” Jason swears as he guides his little brother over to the bed. “Who the hell was your target?”_

_His little brother is one of the toughest fighters Jason knows_

_The boy yawns, bloodied clothes weighing him down and fatigue infecting his mind._

_“A...A important...political...figure…” He says, and he falls asleep not a second after._

_Jason frowns, gently wraps up his injuries, and takes him to the medical wing._

_Then he turns around and goes hunting for the kid’s mother._

_Because this is unacceptable, and it_ **_will not_ ** _happen again._

_Jason refuses to let it._

Jason resurfaces with a gasp, feeling as though he’s drowning, and he’s ready to _fight_ someone, ready to shoot until he’s out of bullets in the magazine and then pull up his fists because-

Because his brother killed at age three and he’s most likely been doing it since, and Jason _knows_ him, knows him like Jason knows his own goddamn body, and so he knows that he would’ve collapsed, would have broken because he cares.

He cares too much, his heart is too big, and the lifestyle of an assassin isn’t for him.

For years, a goal of Jason’s has been to give his baby brother a life away from the League of Assassins, one where he doesn’t have to fight unless he wants to, one where he doesn’t have to kill.

Jason stares up at the ceiling from the floor and smiles a little brokenly.

He wonders if he isn’t already dead.

* * *

Damian closes his eyes.

The cosmos spins around him, trying to grab his attention, trying to make him fix it in the places that need it, but Damian ignores it.

All he wants right now is to be alone.

So he dissolves the too cold, too still body and simply _is._

The universe is him, and he is the universe, and there’s nothing he can do to change that.

Not becoming human, not becoming the little brother and son of a family who _loves_ him, not him loving them back with twice the fever, _nothing._

But-

But he can’t force himself to forget his time on Earth, can’t force himself to forget the whirlwind of emotions and experiences.

Somehow, ten years spent on a planet that’s just as ordinary as any other has changed him, when ten years is a blink of an eye to him.

Somehow, Damian has been…

Repaired, perhaps?

By human standards, yes, in a way, but Damian doesn’t feel like he’s been repaired.

He feels as though he’s been crushed, and the pieces left behind glued together haphazardly.

Perhaps this is how mortals feel.

The revelation stuns him, and it echoes throughout space, ripples in which liquids become hotter and yet colder, and every sentient being has a signal sent from their brain that says, _something is happening, and it might not be good._

Damian floats in what he represents with shock crawling up his consciousness, and he thinks-

He thinks that, maybe, he would rather be gone.

What’s his purpose-by the way the multiverse is, he doesn’t even exist in any other world except this one.

Is he just a glitch, just a-just a _mistake?_  

He’s never known why he exists, never questioned it, but-

Clearly, what he thought his purpose was isn’t even needed.

And if his purpose isn’t needed, then why the hell is he here?

* * *

Jason doesn’t know why he’s here.

He should be looking for his little brother, and yet-

And yet here he is, stolen helmet in hand as he simply examines it, feeling that familiar mixture of grief and anger rise and twist inside him.

Bruce comes up from behind, footsteps barely there as he walks, but Jason’s been attuned to the way he walks since he was just a kid, and he says, “Did Damian even tell you how he stole this from me?”

“As a matter of fact, he did.” Bruce replies, and Jason doubts he told his father the truth, because that photograph is still hidden.

Bruce comes closer and gently takes the helmet from his hands. “I’d prefer leaving everything as is, Jason.” He says softly, and places the helmet back on the shelf.

“Sure... I understand.”

And Jason _does_ understand, because he was the same with his mom’s room when she died and he could afford to stay where they lived.

He used to pretend that she would walk through the door again, one day.

“Did Alfred get the results of our newest blood workup?” Jason asks, and he’s trying to change the subject because the air has become too heavy and filled with bittersweet memories of the ten year old who once lived here, and he needs noise to fill the void at this moment.

“Yeah, no trace of Joker Toxin. The antidote worked. Alfred officially discharged me. I’m leaving tomorrow.” Bruce says, and his sentences are short and choppy and his voice is shaky, and Jason breathes a bit slower when he hears it.

He’s only ever heard that when Bruce wants to talk about something else, but the trembling is new.

So he says, “Good to hear.” instead of calling Bruce out on his feelings and the way he’s slowly becoming darker than he should.

And just as Jason’s turning to leave, as he’s starting to think on another way to find his little brother, Bruce looks over his shoulder, eyes shadowed, and says, “But before you go, come down to the Batcave. I want to show you something.’

Something inside Jason tells him that it isn’t good. 

He goes anyways.

* * *

The screen of the computer lights up, and Jason’s staring at information that he can’t focus on, because Bruce is next to him, and he’s gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, and for Jason that’s more important.

“What am I looking at?” Jason says, and he keeps a careful eye on Bruce as he replies.

“A cadre of international bounty hunters-all snipers-expert marksmen and women who travel the globe looking for big paydays from individuals and countries alike.”

Bruce turns around and goes down the stairs, and Jason follows, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, and he knows where this is headed, because Bruce’s voice is blank, and it only gets like that when he’s so angry he can’t express it.

“They operate like a small company, donating a percentage of their bounties into a fund to procure hi-tech surveillance and weapons so they’re _always_ ahead of the curve against high risk and high value assets."

Jason narrows his eyes, and he feels like he needs to back away _now,_ because this is not the Batman, this is Bruce Wayne the Father, and he’s _always_ been more dangerous than Batman.

“They’re based in Ethiopia, protected by politicians in the state government who avert their eyes as long as regular deposits are made into their offshore accounts , and the opposition party is culled from time to time by a well-aimed night scope in secret state-sanctioned freebies.”

Bruce pulls on his uniform, and his arms are so tense they’re shaking, and Jason still doesn’t move.

“Some of these shooters came hunting for Damian when _Talia,”_ He spits the name like it’s a curse, and to their family, it is. “Placed a _half billion-dollar bounty_ on him.”

Bruce pulls on the cowl, and faces Jason, and the only thing Jason can see is the black outline of the bat with his white white eyes. “I think it’s time to show these bastard that targeting a _ten-year-old_ puts a bull’s-eye on themselves…”

Bruce pulls on the cowl, and faces Jason, and Jason's heart goes  _thumpthumpthump_ in anticipation and dread.

“...And that killing isn’t much of a living.”

Jason tilts his head. “You asking me to go with you?” He asks, and he already knows the answer.

“Yes, I am."

“Why?”

Bruce has his helmet in his left hand and Jason’s belt in the other, and he says, ‘Because I’m seeing _red.”_

Jason refuses to acknowledge the shiver that runs up his spine as he nods. 

Bruce’s grim smile doesn’t help.

* * *

“Initiate cloaking.”

_Cloaking engaged._

“Arm non-lethal concussive rockets one through four.”

_Armed and ready._

“Those are flash-bangs. Why not take out the facility, instead of warning them?”

Jason leans forward in his seat, and his face is hidden by his helmet, but he knows that Bruce can hear the reproach.

“Because I want _them_ out in the open first…”

Bruce presses a button and says, _“So I can get up close and personal.”_

Jason frowns as they fall from the sky.

“I want these snipers to see the target in the scopes can bring sometimes bring the _pain to them.”_

They crash to the ground head first, and Jason sticks his arm out the window as he shoots.

 _“Hands, knees, and elbows!”_ Bruce shouts over the sound of gunfire, and Jason snorts.

“Nothing but!” He yells back, and pulls the trigger.

“Shock and awe first, then a small man made dust storm to blind them. Let’s get out there-com-link open.” 

Jason isn’t sure who says it after they leap out of the car, but he knows that one of them did.

“Feels like old times.” Bruce rumbles as he does his whole cape thing, but Jason’s already shooting.

“Thanks for the invite!” Jason says, and his grin is sharp under his namesake. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

Jason’s _excited,_ and he barely keeps in a laugh as Bruce punches a guy trying to sneak up on him.

“And thanks for being there after the Joker’s little facemask surprise.” Jason says, because right now is as good a time as any, and he might as well get it out now.

“You don’t ever need to thank me, Red Hood…” Bruce grunts, and swings around Jason to knock away another opponent. “...A family _always_ looks out for each other.”

Jason barely keeps in his scoff as he kicks a guy in the face, shooting another two behind him.. “Yeah, but a family also needs to earn each other’s trust.”

Bruce tosses a specially made grenade up in his hands. “Comes a time when having to keep earning someone’s trust stops-” He throws it “and you hope that the people you’ve put your faith in-” The night becomes awash with red and yellow and orange and _heat,_ and Jason chokes on it.

“-will always be there when you need them-” Jason throws himself to the ground and shoots a knee.

“-will always have your back-” Jason catches a peek of the sniper out of the corner of his eyes and he can’t take him out because there’s too many people-

Bruce is suddenly in front of him. _“-no matter what.”_

Jason couldn’t hear what Bruce said next, but he could see the bright blue light, almost white, that spark to life around Bruce’s hands and spreads to the sniper’s, and Jason knows, in an absent way that will hit him later, that the man Bruce is holding down-

The guy’s nerves won’t work again.

Jason feels sick in his stomach as he finishes off the rest of the stragglers, and heads to the car because that way Bruce bared his teeth was bloodthirsty and full of satisfaction.

Jason gets into the car and waits, head in his hands, for Bruce to come back.

When he heard the soft noise of his cape, Jason stands, and asks, “Done?”

“Never.” Bruce lands and marches towards the car. “Let’s go." 

And they speed off into the night leaving victims behind and a bad taste in Jason’s mouth.

* * *

The stars are too numerous to count, and Jason’s _tired._

The thrill of the fight has long since gone away, and all he wants is sleep, but the way Bruce is right now makes him nervous; he refuses to sleep when he’s driving.

So he says, “We’ve been driving for almost an hour. Why aren’t we taking the plane, Bruce?”

“Because we need to make a detour.”

Jason crosses his arms and doesn’t look at Bruce. “Why did you take me on this mission? It was clear that you could’ve mopped them up alone.”

And it was true; Jason had seen him in action just sixty minutes ago, and from the way he was fighting, he could have taken them down in half the time.

“Because I _need_ your help, Jason.” Bruce says, and he pretends not to hear how Jason sucks in a sharp breath.

“Where are we going?” Jason says instead of shouting about how _oh now you need my help-_

“Just over the next rise of dunes.” Bruce answers, like he doesn’t know just how much his last statement shocked his son.

Jason worries on his bottom lip before he turns his head. “Where are we going, Bruce?” He asks, and Bruce clenches his jaw.

“Ethiopia.”

“I know we’re in Ethiopia-I can read a GPS.” Jason says dryly. _“Where_ in Ethiopia?”

The car stops, Bruce climbs out, and walks towards what’s practically a crater. Jason follows, but his brain is blaring a warning, shrieking at him to _stay away, get away from here, do it now, do not trust him-_

“The Magdala Valley.” Bruce says, and Jason’s stomach turns over and over as he slowly pulls off his helmet.

His heart is beating, the rush of blood almost enough to drown out Bruce says right after.

_“This is where you died.”_

Jason takes a deep, ragged breath.

Why-

Why had Bruce brought him here-

“If I close my eyes, I can still smell the cordite in the air around the ruined warehouse...that bright, horribly day...your body already cold to the touch…”

Jason closes his eyes, hands limp at his sides. “You _lied_ to me. This wasn’t about taking down those mercenaries. You _wanted_ to bring me _here,_ to the _worst place_ in the world…”

He sighs. “And here I was starting to believe all of your crap about truth and faith-”

Bruce cuts him off. “Those killers were the mission, but this was… Something else, something I couldn’t ignore.”

Jason can feel his body starting to tremble, and he doesn’t know if it's from trauma or rage as Bruce continues.

“I thought bringing you here could jog your memory-maybe retrieve a detail buried deep in your subconscious that could help piece together how you came back to life so I-”

“Could apply it to getting Damian back.” Jason finishes, and his tone is blank.

“Yeah, I get it.”

_I really don’t, Bruce, why would you bring me here after all these years-_

“Did it ever occur to you I might like keeping whatever the hell happened to me buried deep?”

 _(The Joker laughing, a heavy crowbar slamming against his ribs,_ **_which do you prefer-)_ **

“If you cared about me, you wouldn’t want me to dredge up the one thing I’ve been trying to forget!” Jason roars, and throws his arms out.

_(Bruce will come, Bruce will come-)_

**“I don’t want to remember the most horrific day of my life, all right?”**

_(Tick tock of a bomb, Bruce won’t make it time, I’m going to die today-)_

“You might like wallowing in your tragedies, Bruce, but I’m _done_ looking back!”

_(Heat, unbearable heat, blood dripping down his lips, sorry, Bruce-)_

Bruce points an accusing finger at him, cape billowing to the side, and Jason wants to throw up at his next words.

“If you cared about me and what _I’ve_ lost, you’d _want_ to dredge this up!”

 _We’ve all lost Damian, Bruce, please just_ **_stop-_ **

“Don’t you see-there’s a chance you can help me erase one of the worst days of _my_ life, Jason! You can give me the greatest gift of all and help me figure out how to get my son back!”

Jason snaps.

 _“Yeah, and how about me?”_ Jason screams and takes a threatening step towards the person who he thought cared. “How about _the gift_ of _not knowing_ that the Joker manipulated my _entire life,_ huh?”

Jason stops and spits a curse, angrily wiping at the tears that had been building.

“The clown tainted everything, the good, the bad-hell, my life’s even been tainted by you!”

“Don’t ever say that-that’s not true.” Bruce says, and Jason laughs hysterically as he throws a punch.

“No? Then why are you making me stand in the exact same spot he beat me to death?”

 _(Bruce Bruce Bruce, Bruce_ **_please,_ ** _please please, I don’t want to die-)_

“Why? I’ll tell you why!” Bruce growls as he responds in kind, and Jason's face snaps to the side as he lets out grunt.

“I’m all ears!” Jason screams, and his throat is starting to hurt, but _fuck,_ he doesn’t care because scarlet is tainting his vision and Bruce takes a punch without a sound.

“Because I want to watch Damian grow up, dammit!”

_You missed me growing up, don’t you know, don’t you care-_

Jason stumbles back at the blow that Bruce gives him, and Bruce isn’t holding back, and Jason’s fight or flight instincts are kicking in, but it always _has_ and always _will_   be fight.

The next few minutes are a blur of pain and words, and through it all Jason can only relive snippets of the minutes before he died.

_(Bruce won’t get here in time-that’s okay, I’ll be the last-I’m going to die, I’m going to die, is this what you wanted, Mom-)_

“I’m taking the car. Goodbye, Bruce.”

* * *

He sets the car to auto pilot, and curls up in a seat, gasping for breath, and he can’t-

He can’t understand why Bruce would do that to him; doesn't he care for him? So why-

Why-

_Why-_

_“Jason?”_  

Jason swings his head around, because he knows that voice and the bloody hours of the last day of his life fades away.

_“Yeah?”_

_“Did it...Did it hurt, when you died?”_

_“...”_

_“Jason?”_

_“Yeah. Hurt like hell.”_

_“Oh.”_

Jason clenches his hands in his hair, because why why why-

Why _now-_

Why that memory?

_“Hey, don’t worry about it. I got to meet you.”_

_“You shouldn’t have died_ **_at all.”_ **

Jason can see the golden of the sand and the green of his brother eyes, can feel the way it is to hold him close-

_“Yeah, that’s...That’s a thing too.”_

_“Jason? I’m glad you’re back.”_

_“Me too, Damian, me too.”_

Jason's eyes snap open, and he stops breathing.

* * *

Jason doesn’t know why, but the moment he’s back in the cave, he goes straight to Damian’s room.

The photograph is clear as day in his eye, and he remembers the moment it was taken like it was only yesterday, and he can’t believe how stupid he’s been.

He finds it right away, because Damian’s predictable in his hiding places, and he sits down on his baby brother’s bed as he looks down at it.

Jason had been having a hard day, and Damian had told him the corniest joke that just made him laugh and laugh and even Damian had cracked a smile, and a maid had taken it at Talia’s request.

Jason hugs the frame close to his chest and tears sting his eyes, and he doesn’t stop them, because he lost his brother twice, and it hurts, it _hurts-_

Why had Damian never told him, never tried to explain-

Jason chokes on a sob.

“Because he’s a stupid self sacrificing idiot who puts other’s needs before his own.” Jason whispers, and he clutches the photo tight in grief.

He’s mourning two different people and yet they’re the same, and Jason won’t ever forgive himself for the way he called his precious little brother a _Demon Brat,_ never forgive himself for ignoring him the way he did, for not noticing how he relaxed around him.

It’s so transparent to him now that he has to marvel at his own foolishness.

Damian was just-

He was so simple and so complicated, and he was a minefield to navigate, but it was-it is _worth it._

Jason bends over the photograph as if to protect it and quietly cries.

* * *

When Jason gets the chance to get Damian back, he agrees without a second thought. 

He dresses in Robin’s colors, and he feels too old for the _R_ , but Damian had smiled at him in assassin black with blood spattered on him with broken eyes, and he wants Damian to live, to experience more than what he has, and so he goes with Damian’s symbol over his heart and determination in his veins, and he _wants his little brother back_

There isn’t a force in the universe that could stop him now.

* * *

Damian’s in the middle of arranging a cluster of stars when something tugs at him.

He attempts to tilt his head until he realizes that he doesn’t have one.

He shrugs it off and nudges a star closer to another.

There’s another pull.

Damian stops and almost scowls but then he remembers-

No face means no expressions.

Irritation rises in him before it fades away within a blink of a second.

Another tug.

Damian finally abandons his project and that’s when he notices the string connected to his chest.

_What-_

Damian’s suddenly being pulled and shrunken, and he opens his mouth to scream-

But he has no mouth, wait now he does-

_Why is his body warm, why does he have the rush of blood, what is going on-_

But then-

But then large arms come up to engulf him in a desperate hug, and Damian knows these arms, and he’s so happy he doesn’t even wonder why he’s here, why he’s alive again, but-

“Father.” Damian says, and his voice is scratchy from disuse, but it’s _his,_ and he hugs his Father tighter and tighter because he’s alive, he’s alive, they can see him and talk to him and touch him, and-

And he has his family back, _he has his family back._  

That’s...That’s all that matters.

* * *

Jason stands back and watches as father and son reunite, and the photo is tucked away safely in Jason’s home, and he can’t manage to look away at the absolutely content look on Damian’s face.

He smiles, and decides he’ll show Damian later.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He chokes on a sob, the physical pain of making his throat bleed nothing compared to the agony of losing a family member.
> 
> No sound comes out of his mouth when he tries to speak, to say something, and he thinks that it’s for the best.
> 
> If he can’t talk, he can’t hurt his loved ones.
> 
> If he can’t talk, he can’t curse the memory of Dick Grayson. 
> 
> If he can’t talk, then maybe everything will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA HAAAAA I'M BACK.

Damian can’t breathe.

He can’t-

“What?”

Father sighs and pulls him closer, and Damian allows it because everything is numb.

He _just_ came back, just settled into this body again, got used to the restriction, when the news reached his ears.

Dick Grayson is dead, has been dead, and Damian can’t breathe.

In the darkness that’s all he can see, stars spin and spin, little bursts of colors as Damian presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He _just_ came back.

“I-” Damian starts, and he can’t finish.

He just can’t.

Maybe the Chaos Crystal shard that's rattling around between his bones took his resurrection as a trade.

One life brought back for another life lost.

Damian has never hated himself more, because if that’s true, he should have just stayed where he belongs.

His feet carry him far away, pounding against the worn stone of the rooftops, and Damian doesn’t even know if he’s in uniform or just himself, and he doesn’t _care,_ because Dick Grayson should be running with him, beside him, anywhere, because he’s Dick Grayson.

Dick Grayson shouldn’t-couldn’t die.

And yet he did, and tears are burning and blurring his vision, and Damian has to stop before he falls to the ground and causes yet another death.

He stops, and he crumbles to the ground, gasping for air and sobs catching in his throat, and all he can think is _why him, why him, why him-_

Damian wants- _needs_ to let out this storm of emotions, of rage and misery and everything else he can’t name, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t because he isn’t in the woods this time.

He can’t have stars spring to life on his fingers, can’t destroy, can’t let his veins glow and white bleed out of his eyes, can’t do _anything-_

Can’t do anything to express his grief, and so he screams and screams, and his voice is becoming hoarse, but nobody comes to see the small boy on his knees, crying out for the one he lost, for the anger and pain whirling inside him, because this happens all too often.

They’ve heard it before, and they won’t help, and so Damian’s left alone, too crowded and yet too isolated, and he _can’t-_

Damian takes a shaking breath, and he tastes copper.

He chokes on a sob, the physical pain of making his throat bleed nothing compared to the agony of losing a family member.

No sound comes out of his mouth when he tries to speak, to say something, and he thinks that it’s for the best.

If he can’t talk, he can’t hurt his loved ones.

If he can’t talk, he can’t curse the memory of Dick Grayson. 

If he can’t talk, then maybe everything will be okay.

* * *

 

Jason’s seen Damian almost fall apart before.

It hurt then, and it hurts now, because Damian is throwing everything he has into fighting, and that’s _not what he needs._

What Damian Wayne needs is a understanding hand, a kind face, and a solid presence at his side, at his back, a reminder that he isn’t alone.

Jason can’t seem to catch him though; he’s always gone when Jason turns around, always disappears right before Jason tells him he wants to see something.

(The one time Jason had grabbed his wrist the second before he melted into the shadows, Damian had stared at him with _dead dead dead_ eyes and his hands had twitched, and the way he had simply looked made Jason let go, because Damian had looked like he was moments away from shattering into a million pieces, and this time nobody would be able to glue him back together.)

But.

Jason is worried, so so worried, because he only just gained his memories and his brother back, and-

And he loses him _again,_ if he has to deal with his absence _again,_ Jason will fucking burn Gotham down, he doesn’t give a damn.

This city is truly a starving city, hungry for anyone foolish enough to wander into her jaws, and Jason refuses to let Damian be one of those who do.

(He remembers the day before he left, the way Damian had looked like he was losing control of whatever it is that holds him in one piece, he remembers the way that Damian had screamed, the way that the windows had broken, the way that Damian’s face had gone pale, the way that he ran.

Damian’s been hiding his entire life.

Jason doesn’t want him to hide anymore.)

* * *

The days blur into weeks, and Damian barely keeps track of the date.

He blinks and the sun sets, and he's out on the streets again, nebula whipping across his skin as he sprints in the poisonous Gotham air, and he works hard in making the shard melt into his own powers.

It's a process, considering it wasn't made by him, but he's getting there.

(He can feel it trying to make his skeleton lighter, his muscles stronger, and he doesn't want that, that's for Superman and other metas.

Damian is just Damian.

He doesn't need powers like those.)

He's stopping yet another attempted mugging when his ears ring, and he doesn't know if it's from going so long without sleep or not when the blow catches up to him.

He stumbles, head aching, and already whipping out a foot to catch on his attacker’s ankle.

They go down, and his ears are still going shrieking and he has a knife to the heart.

It's a short one, and it doesn't look like it could even get past his tunic, but last time he has a blade to his chest, he died with a _tock_ bouncing around in his head.

A taped together smile comes over the man's face, growing with every moment that Damian just stands there, and he laughs.

His laugh is terrible.

He walks forward a step, and Damian back away, eyes locked on the knife.

“Looks like Robin is scared.” The man rasps, voice rough from smoking, and he laughs again.

Damian scowls, and the stars hidden by pollution chatter in worry.

They felt his anguish, his sorrow, and frankly don’t want to again anytime soon.

“Robin is so scared of a knife.” The thug cackles, arm shaking from drugs or alcohol-Damian can't tell which. “And he uses a fucking sword!”

Damian’s hand darts to where he keeps said sword, and his world has long since narrowed down to just this.

He idly wonders why his lungs are burning, why he feels dizzy.

Another step forward, another step back.

Damian hits the building behind him, and he still can’t move beyond trying to get away, and the man in front of him takes the way his hands are trembling as a sign of victory.

“Now, don’t you come after me, you hear?” He says, and his breath washes over Damian’s face, warm and Damian tries to snap at him, but he can’t, his mouth isn’t working-

“Understand?”

Damian stares at the cement and tries to stop the way he sways, tries to ignore the black dancing across his surroundings.

He blinks, laboriously slow, and the man’s gone.

Damian slowly slides down the wall, and he gasps for air, and he can finally breathe again, and he doesn’t know why that happened, doesn’t know why he froze up, but for now he pulls his legs close to his chest and buries his face in his knees, and just-

He focuses on calming down.

He rocks back and forth, and takes in oxygen and it comes out carbon dioxide, and he asks himself why he even wanted to come back, because right now he’d rather be amongst the cosmos, creating and destroying- _anything but this._

How can humans keep on moving if this happens to them?

Dawn breaks and Damian’s still in the alley.

* * *

 

Titus and Bat-cow and Alfred the cat are good distractions, Damian muses as he brushes his pets down.

Alfred meows at him and Titus bumps his nose against his cheek.

“I know, I need to sleep.” Damian says with a tired smile, and the bonds connecting them to him grow brighter in concern.

“It’s _fine._ I’ve been trained to go without sleep.” Damian protests, and Bat-cow looks at him judgmentally, as if to say _young man, you better listen to us._

Damian chuckles and bumps his forehead against her’s. “I’m going to be okay, don’t worry.”

Alfred sneezes and flicks his tail.

Damian laughs and flops down on his back, arms outstretched to the sides.

Titus runs around him, barking madly before spinning and resting his head on his stomach.

Alfred jumps down gracefully and swats Titus with his paw as he curls up on his owner’s chest.

Bat-cow simply lays down beside them, and Damian leans his head back, a smile playing along the edges of his lips, and he’s content.

(It’s the first moment of peace he’s had since he came back.)

* * *

 

Jason….

Jason is exhausted. 

He’s been running damage control for Damian for weeks now, taking the blame for when he goes too far, gets too violent, and from the way Damian’s been running himself into the ground, Jason’s having to track him down every single night, and it’s _tiring._

So he tells Bruce to fuck off, and heads home.

Damian isn’t even out tonight, according to Tim anyways, so it’s time for the ever enticing bed to be slept in.

He doesn’t expect tonight to be anything but a normal night, one where he actually gets to _sleep,_ but it isn’t.

Because when he comes home, the photograph is missing.

* * *

 

“Hello, safehouse” Jason says, already taking off his helmet.

“Hello, bed.”

“Hello, pho-”

Jason stops.

“Where the hell is it.”

He couldn’t have lost it, it’s the only copy either of them have, it _can’t be gone-_

Jason stops, takes a deep breath, and runs a hand through his hair.

“Did Damian take it?” He asks himself, and he can’t help but think that maybe he did, maybe he found it and took it back, like he should have, like _Jason_ should have, and-

Jason scowls and shoves his helmet back on.

He’s gonna go find the fucker who took it.

Or, if it is Damian, he’ll explain why he had it in the first place. 

Either way, he doesn’t get sleep, so what’s the big deal?

* * *

 

Damian stares at the picture, heart pounding in his ears and solar wind whistling past his teeth as he hisses in confusion.

Why did Jason have it, it doesn’t have any significance to him, not anymore, it _doesn’t-_

Damian bends his fingers around the wood- _careful, careful, you might break it, and then where would you be-_ and sits, wind whipping his cape to the right and cold biting at his cheeks.

It’s just like Gotham; to confuse, to turn her inhabitants round and round until all they can see is darkness, until all they are is mad as a hatter, and it doesn’t matter to this city that Damian isn’t a mortal, not technically, because he has a mind, and that is something she can break.

He curls up, spine turning into an arch, and he knows how much further he can bend before it cracks, and he wonders why the human body is so fragile, why it can be beaten so thoroughly when the humans themselves are anything but.

Frostbite wraps it’s arms around him, a frigid chill settling over him, and Death steps out of the shadows.

“Hello.” He says without looking back, and before he never would have uses pronouns, because why would he? It’s a startling difference, one that’s so subtle he’s never noticed it before now.

Death simply nods at him, sitting down beside him, and it’s graceful and not at the same time, because every death can be one or both, and Death is just a shape, because Death is for everyone, be it beautiful, or feared, or anticipated. Death takes everything, in the end.

“Good evening.” Death says, and it’s the rattling cough of a old man and the terrified scream of a child.

Damian smiles without peace at the perishable humans wandering in the street, and clutches the picture tighter, ice spiraling up his arms. “I prefer to go by Damian these days.” He tells Death, and he may have created Death, but they’re equals, and they’ve always treated each other as such.

Death sets it’s hands on it’s lap, and it’s form has solidified into a vaguely human shape, but Damian can still see the tears of a mother losing her seven year old, and a young man with nothing to live for staring at the ground below in the black Death favors.

“I see.” Death hums, voice layered like his once was.

They stay silent, and Damian hides the picture in his cloak, and turns to his companion, more weary than someone who looks as old as he does should be.

“Why are you here, Death?” He asks, and the stars twitter above.

Death tilts its head, a long, pale finger drawing circles on the building. Flame erupts, hot and scorching, and in it Damian can see a fireman doomed to die.

He shakes it off and turns his attention back to the one of the only constant in the universe.

“...Dick Grayson is not dead.”

Damian rears back, shock and hope worming it’s way into his heart, and he can’t take it if Death is lying, if this is a sick joke, because if Dick Grayson is alive, then maybe everything will be okay again.

Maybe, maybe.

Damian’s sick of maybes.

“Truly?” Damian asks, hardly daring to believe it for a second.

Death shakes it’s head. “His soul has never once strode past my doors or walked my halls.” A flash of humor crosses Death for a moment, and a soldier dies painlessly as it continues. “Although he has certainly sat upon my steps.”

Damian stares at Death, astounded that it would even consider giving him this miracle of information; Death has always been selfish of who it takes, almost never giving names, and Damian trembles as the thought turns over and over in his mind.

“Why…” He can’t finish.

Death glances at him, and it’s presence flickers like a flame on a candle. “I felt your anguish, Damian,” It speaks his name as though it’s a kid, testing out the syllables on it’s tongue, and Damian slumps over, shoulders coming up to his chin. “I did not want to cause you any more pain.”

Damian laughs, brittle and full of broken glass. “Why do you care?”

Death chuckles, the sound of a sniper pulling the trigger and never missing, and says, “Because after so many years, I’ve come to like you. Especially now.”

Damian shrugs. “You become human and see how long you stay the same.” 

“I can’t. Any body I have would rot.” Death says without missing a beat, and Damian’s reminded of Alfred’s dry wit.

“Just restrain your powers.” He says, and Death snaps its fingers as though that’s a brilliant idea.

“I can’t.”

Damian laughs again, and this time it’s warmer, and he thinks that he prefers this to how they talked only twenty years ago. “I can help,” He suggests with a grin.

Death can’t smile, but Damian has a feeling that it would be if it could. “I just might take you up on that offer.” Death says, and this time a old woman dies in her sleep after leading a full life.

The clock tolls, and Death stands, the humanoid shape fading with every second that it stays here.

“I shall see you later, Damian.” Death promises, and dissolves into smoke.

Damian pulls the picture out of his cloak, and traces Jason’s face with a rapidly heating up finger. “Okay.”

(He doesn’t see the figure in red watching from behind.)

* * *

 

Jason clenches his fists and tries not to punch a wall, because _Damian is missing_ and _no one knows where he is because he turned off his tracker._

Why, why, _why_ did anyone let him out?

Jason breathes in, breathes out, and grapples to a higher building, looking for his idiot kid brother, because Damian is still only, what, twelve?

He can’t be thinking straight-

“Why do you care?”

Jason stops dead.

That-that’s _Damian-_

“Because after so many years, I’ve come to care for you. Especially now.”

That voice makes the lizard part of Jason’s brain stand at attention, makes him straighten up and back away, because that voice is the laughter of the Joker, the tick tock of a bomb in a abandoned warehouse, the sound of a crowbar hitting his ribs, _forehand or backhand-_

He chances a step forward, pulse a drum in his ears, and his hands are shaking, and he almost can’t take another, but-

But _Damian_ is down there, with that horrifying voice, and Jason has never been one to run, not once in his life, and even though his body is nearly humming, saying _get out, get away before it sees you, before you can’t run away anymore-_

“I can’t.”

Jason glances around the corner, and sees Damian laugh, and it’s more complete than anything he’s heard in awhile, but-

But he can’t see what spoke.

“I can help.” Damian says, and he’s _smiling_ at thin air, and Jason should, he _should_ go down there, but then the space next to his baby brother ripples, and that fucking _voice-_

“I just might take you up on that offer.”

The hair on his arm’s raise, and Jason sucks in a breath as a clock rings-and where the hell is that coming from, anyways, they don’t have a clock that can be heard all around the city, and especially not one near here-and that...thing talks again.

“I shall see you later, Damian.”

And suddenly the overbearing fear is gone, leaves Jason gasping for air, and-and his heart is racing, and _why isn’t Damian the same._  

Too old eyes on a too young face drudge themselves up from his memories,and with it comes the way Damian sometimes glowed, the way that he broke the glass with a single shout-

And Jason realizes that Damian’s been dealing with things like that for _years_ now, probably ever since he was born, and- 

Jason thinks that Damian should be done with hiding.

(He doesn’t know Damian’s every secret, and it’s something that weighs on him heavily, stays on his mind even as he watches Damian look down at the picture in his hands with a sad smile until the sun rises.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so real time. Honestly, I referenced Death in the first chapter, in the third paragraph. Death did not come out of nowhere, and will not become a regular character.
> 
> Just saying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin is reasonably certain that this is a situation that counts as Pretty Bad.
> 
> The children around him whimper and huddle close together, and Colin really wants to go home. He's been here for ages now, and he'd really like a bed now, thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squints* Holy _fuck_ is this another chapter?!
> 
> Yes, yes it is.
> 
> And I recommend reading death in my eyes before reading this chapter, because it explains the whole... Death situation that takes up a majority of this chapter.
> 
> But!! I have finished!! This!! Chapter!!
> 
> Also I give zero fucks about how to whole saving Colin thing goes, so I made everything up with casual glances at the wiki. Besides. Allllternate universe! Can do basically whatever the hell I want.

_ Dick’s alive. _

The words sing in his veins, a wild, uncontrollable truth, and Damian’s left breathless as it whirls around in his mind.

_ Dick’s  _ **_alive._ **

Damian laughs, spinning around on the rooftop, and Gotham parts it’s clouds for him to see the night sky, and Damian grins at his children.

“Grayson’s alive.” He tells them, and they chitter and chatter above him, and he can’t even be mad at them for keeping the truth from him, because Dick’s  _ alive. _

Not dead.

He’s not  _ dead. _

His heart is beating, he’s breathing in air, he’s  _ alive. _

Damian’s not in uniform, not even close; he only has the cape and hood to hide his identity, but he doesn’t give a damn, not when that rock in his stomach is gone, not when that lump in his throat has disappeared.

Not when Dick’s alive, not when the Chaos Crystal shard didn’t take his resurrection as a trade.

Damian laughs and laughs, and it’s almost five in the morning, but Dick’s alive.

Nothing else matters but that.

Nothing.

Not even the question of what the hell Dick's been doing.

(He doesn’t hear the way the shadows trill about Red Hood being on his trail.)

* * *

Damian leaps from a tree in the park and lands, headphones brushing against his legs as he kneels, hands hovering over the Earth.

“Tell me where Grayson is.” He whispers, and it’s a desperate demand, one that nothing in the universe could refuse.

_ He is with Spyral,  _ Earth tells him, and her voice is warm.

“Show me”

His hands settle on the dirt, and his eyes don’t see the park anymore.

No, he sees Dick jumping into the air with a strange symbol in his chest and a gun in his hands.

He sees someone shouts, “Agent 37!” and Dick respond as if that’s his name.

He sees Dick save someone.

He sees Dick grieving.

Damian blinks.

The park’s back.

Damian leans back on his heels and sighs.

Dick’s doing some good in the world, like always, and Damian…

Damian hasn’t.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs again, and Earth murmurs underneath him, little plants rising to wrap around his ankles.

_ I haven't been doing much,  _ Damian thinks, and has to close his eyes in shame.

So what if he died? So what? He's over a  _ millennia.  _ He's as old as the universe, even a few minutes older. He should be out there, leaping among the rooftops, feet always landing and always leaving the ground beneath him, should be taking out people who hurt others because they want to.

But he isn't.

“So what if a blade near my chest makes me nervous,” Damian says to the sky. “I won't stop. I'm going to get over that fear. It's not trauma, it's just an irrational fear.”

Damian knows, in his heart, that what he says is a lie. He knows that. But-

But his mind is one of a  _ god,  _ one that constructed this world when he was bored, one that came into existence with nothing around him and made _ something. _

He _ shouldn't _ be traumatized, and so he isn't.

Perhaps if he says it enough, it'll become reality.

Damian locks his jaw and rises to his feet, determination rolling in his veins and a frightening amount of will burning in his heart and crawling across his features.

_ No more, _ he thinks, and clenches his fists as he sweeps from the park, flowers growing from his footsteps, H.F. Young Clematis winking at his back as he moves onto the street.

_ Good luck,  _ the Earth sings, wrapping a hastily grown vine around his ankle, leaves brushing against his skin.

_ Good luck,  _ the sky cackles, and Damian raises an eyebrow at it's childishness.

“Really?” He asks, and the sun only laughs, deep and merry.

_ Yes,  _ the clouds whisper back.

Cold wraps around his wrist, and a voice that's like the sob of a father, says, “Good luck.”

Damian smiles, and the smog around him disappears. “Thank you,” he says, and knows that it'll take more than luck to help him out of his grave. It'll take something extra.

_ Maybe,  _ he thinks with a snort as he dives into the pedestrian crowd.  _ I'll just destroy it. _

It's certainly an entertaining concept, one that's so ridiculous it sounds reasonable, and something that Dick would take in a heartbeat.

Damian's steps falter at the thought, laying a shaking hand on the wall beside him. Dick.

Dick is an old soul, one that Death has released before, and Damian _ knows this. _

He'll get let go again, be reborn into yet another body, and Damian knows that for this life time, Dick is like this, angry and loving and protective, and _Damian's_ _  big brother.  _ In the next life, he won't be. Damian knows this.

Logically.

Inwardly, he rebels against the idea of Dick's soul being  _ anyone _ but Dick Grayson, anyone else for rest of time, because Damian loves him.

He doesn't want him to change, to forget him while he's growing up again.

Damian leans forward, biting his lip as he closes his eyes.

Dick is Dick; Damian won't accept his soul in any other body, with any other name.

At least, right now.

He straightens, blazing green eyes fixed ahead at a place only he can see, and he takes one step forward.

Then another.

And another.

He keeps on _ going,  _ because that's all he can do; the cosmos never stop shifting, never stops growing, and humans are the same.

To halt is to stagnate. To stay still is to die.

It's that simple, and Damian is the combination of both humans and the universe. He's never supposed to stand as time rushes past him, as his world changes again and again and _ again. _

Damian slams into a fire escape, and pain blooms in his arm, but he ignores it, because he needs to keep _ going,  _ because if he doesn't, he'll die, and so he grabs the rusty and creaking metal in hand and scrambles up, heartbeat pounding in his ears, and he's not quite sure why it's doing it, but as he hauls himself into the rooftop, balanced precariously on the edge, he doesn't care.

He doesn't pay attention to the way that his vision is blinking, to the way that the sun shouts at him to  _ pay attention, _ and he-

He falls.

“Shit,” he swears, twisting midair and landing roughly on his knees, pain shooting up his arm.

He flops on his back, glaring at the sky. “Focus,” he snarls, furious with himself, and twists his sprained wrist.

Tears spring to life, but Damian only laughs at the pain.  _ Pitiful to a sword in my heart,  _ he thinks venomously, and forces himself to his knees.

_ Dick didn't stay,  _ he thinks, and feels something break.

_ Dick didn't stay, and now he's moved on. _

Damian chuckles and wipes at his eyes. “Only my family can hurt me like this,” he says to no one, and chokes on the sobs building in his throat. “Humans move on so  _ easily.” _

He knows, because he's seen it happen before. He just can't believe that Dick did it. He wasn't...Just because he was gone doesn't mean that Dick couldn't stay.

Pebbles roll closer, brush up against his finger, and Damian smiles a bit at the little show of support. “Thanks,” he says softly, and Gotham shakes the building against his back.

He lets out a breath and stands, his pain threshold far above what his bones are screaming at him, and fixes a smirk on his lips, and it’s sharp enough to cut, dangerous enough to make other's instincts shiver and say  _ here's a threat.  _ It's one that he's learned from growing up at the knees of the most deadly killers in the world, one that he took and molded until it was _ his. _

Maybe, just maybe, they'll be so frightened that they won't look close enough to see that he's starting to shatter in a whole new way.

* * *

Colin is reasonably certain that this is a situation that counts as Pretty Bad.

The children around him whimper and huddle close together, and Colin really wants to go home. He's been here for ages now, and he'd really like a bed now, thank you.

The cell door opens, and ah yes, there's his kidnapper. The kids scramble back, but Colin only calculates the distance between him and Crane, because he can kill someone if he touches them, if he wants to, and he _ really _ wants to kill Crane.

“Well, well. Fresh meat,” Crane purrs, and a shiver runs up Colin's spine at the sound of it, powers automatically rising to the surface as Crane rolls his gaze over everyone in the truck. “I'd run out of kiddies.”

He grabs a young one, barely younger than Colin physically, and drags him outside, leaving the rest in darkness and silence, the only noise made by Colin as he landed on his stomach where that kid had been.

Colin was there a moment too late.

“Goddamnit,” he hisses, and rises enough to cross his legs, death rolling just under his skin, ready to get grasped and harnessed, and the kid dies.

Colin covers his face with both hands, groaning as the kids whine and whisper, and  _ wow,  _ he wants to kill Crane.

So badly.

“I should've been faster,” Colin mumbles, and a teenager snorts at him from her position of leaning against the wall.

“What good would that have done you,” she asks, and Colin lowers his hands, glaring at her with everything he has.

“Not much, but the kid would've been alive still,” he grumbles, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Doubt it. You would've died, then he would've died. Simple math.”

“Shut up,” Colin snaps, and gets to his feet, hands clenching into fists. “What do you know?”

“I  _ know _ that you're stupid with a hero complex when you're only a kid and can't _ do _ anything,” she retorts, pushing herself off the wall and towering over him.

Colin doesn't back down, because he's Death and this  _ baby  _ of a being doesn't scare him. “I could,” he says, strong and unyielding, and he doesn't stand down when she laughs at him.

“Kid, let me tell you something,” she tells him, and points his head at another cell. “Those people are people who've been here for a _long time._ You don't think they fought? Because I can guarantee you that they did and that they failed.”

Colin rolls his eyes and slaps her hands away. “Better to fight than to let it happen,” he says, and goes to mingle with the crowd of frightened children.

He ends up against someone's back as they all settle down for the night, and Colin is still scared, but not as much as others, so he stays awake and keeps watch.

There's a five year old here. She's crying and nobody's really helping her.

Colin stops watching the cell doors and stares at her curiously. His other foster homes had kids her age, but they were all  _ foster _ kids in Gotham, and she looks like she was straight taken out of her home.

She sniffles again, and Colin frowns. “Hey,” he whispers, and she looks up, eyes red and face the same. “Hey, come here.”

She stumbles over to him, opening her arms for a hug, and Colin immediately embraces her, rubbing her back as she cries into his threadbare shirt.

“My name's Colin,” he says softly, and the image of his mother surfaces, her exhausted and happy face staining his thoughts. “What's yours?”

“Sophie.”

Colin laughs quietly and pulls back to wipe away the tears. “Happy to meet you, Sophie,” he says quietly, and she nods shakily in reply. “Why don't you go to sleep, okay? He won't take you.”

“I miss my brother,” she says, helpless as any of them, and Colin hesitates before replying.

“I miss my mom,” he admits, and it's the truth. He misses her so fiercely it's a constant ache in his heart, and not even the way her soul sometimes curls around him is enough.

“Go to sleep, Sophie. He won't get you.”

“Promise,” she asks shyly, and Colin nods.

“Pinky promise.”

(Fear festers in his heart at the thought of Sophie, of _ anyone _ going to Crane's operating table, because he _ knows _ the pain that comes before the inevitable death, knows the fact that they only die is because they hurt too much.

He isn't afraid of death because he _ is _ death, but-

But they aren't. They won't regain consciousness once their bodies leave, not fully, and that's- _ that's _ what scares him.

He doesn't want anyone to die by this man's hand, to die before their time.)

* * *

Colin stays in that cell for a long time, and he somehow becomes the leader.

People crowd around him when they hear Crane's thudding footsteps, ask him for stories, and huddle behind him when Crane stops in front of their cell, and Colin doesn't let them down.

(He forces the panic at the lack of space down, because _ this is not the time for his claustrophobia to act up-) _

He screams and kicks and doesn't let him take a single person except for him, because they are _ his.  _ These people are Colin's, through and through, he won't let Crane take them.

(He comes back with his throat raw from screaming and body red, and he sits in the corner for a while, and nobody bothers him.

He can feel the injections slugging through his veins, and wonders what Crane is planning.)

Death counts rise by the day, Colin knows, because their deaths rattle in his heart, in his head, rattle in his lungs, rattle in his lungs, but Colin can't make himself forsake their relief from the agony, so he gives them each a touch and tell them  _ rest. _

They've earned it.

Sophie climbs into his lap, a geyser of noise, and the others follow, finding relief in his calm, and Colin can't tell them that he's just as scared as the rest of them, that's he's not calm, that he's drawing on millennia of forced nonchalance, and that he's close to shattering, because he's only human, too. He's Death, but he's also Colin, also human, and he's almost ready to fall apart.

Almost.

_ Don't,  _ he tells himself as Sophie giggles at the way he's mumbling under his breath.  _ Don't do that, not here, not with them watching. _

“Colin, Colin, tell us how the world was made,” Sophie demands, tugging on Colin's shirt, and he laughs roughly into her hair.

“Okay,” he says, and starts the tale.

_ Once upon a time, many many years ago, Creator was bored. And Death knew it too, for it was bored as well. So, they spoke. _

_ “Death,” Creator said, and Death nodded in acknowledgment. _

_ “Creator,” Death said in reply, and silence reigned for many years. _

“How many years?”

“Centuries.”

“That long?”

“Yup!”

_ “Creator,” Death said finally, and waved a single hand at the dying star between them. “What do you plan to do with this system?” _

_ Creator was silent, and Death waited for ages. _

_ “I want to create a world with water,” Creator said, and Death tilts it's head. _

_ “You already have,” Death said, and Creator did not answer as the star went supernova. _

“What does supernova mean?”

“It means that the star exploded.”

“Oh.”

_ The only things left was debris and the two gods, one without a body and the other with. _

_ “Death, I am bored. If I wish to make a planet with water, I will do so.” _

_ “I see,” Death said, although it did not. _

_ Creator hummed, the sound rumbling throughout the cosmos, and just like that, the new system began stitching itself together. _

_ When the third planet from the new star began as a hell of heat and rage, Creature focused it's attention on that planet, even as the others flew around and formed. _

_ “Is this going to be the water planet,” Death asks, and Creator doesn't answer, but it makes water and a atmosphere and a moon and they wait. _

_ Soon, the entire planet is covered in blue, and Creator makes a noise. _

_ “I am done here. I need to go torment those Guardians of Oa,” Creator said, and Death narrowed it's eyes. _

_ “Do they still believe the green is willpower instead of a gift?” _

_ “Indeed,” Creator said, and it's consciousness was elsewhere. _

_ Death stayed behind, and watched the signs of first life appear, and- _

The cell door slams open, Crane looms, and in his hand is Colin's teddy bear, Rory.

Rory is something that Colin's had all his life, it was from his mother,  _ why does he have it. _

“Final injection, Wilkes. Do it and I'll let everyone go,” Crane taunts, and dangles Rory by one paw, and fury is a wave in Colin's ears.

“Okay,” Colin says, and puts Sophie down. “Let them go.”

Crane grins nastily and grabs Colin by the arm, dragging him to his side and Colin watches as Sophie shrieks for him, the gas already knocking them unconscious.

Then he's back on the operating table, and Crane has set Rory by the syringes, and _ nobody _ is left.

They've all been dragged out by the minions, and as Colin readies himself for the fire in the veins, he's overwhelmingly happy about that, and Death's touch rises beneath his skin.

The syringe hits his skin, punctures, and suddenly the fire is a  _ star. _

Colin's spine arches as he screams, and his body is changing, it's changing, the room is becoming too small,  _ kill- _

He coughs out black smoke, and his eyes glow white as his control almost snaps.

“What did you do,” Death breathes, and Crane looks up at him in fear.

(How ironic, Scarecrow, master of fear is afraid of him. Then again, everyone is scared of death.)

_ “What did you do to my body,”  _ Death roars, and the glass shatters, Batman and Robin swinging through, and Death can't think beyond killing Crane.

“Go fight,” Crane orders, but Death listens to _ nobody,  _ never has, and so it hits Crane across the room, and he's dead within a second of Death touching him, and Death tears his soul apart, rips it into pieces and  _ destroys _ the shards left.

Death's left swaying in place as it's powers begin to break it's body down, and-

Oh. It fell.

Robin's in it's face, and, oh. It knows Robin too. Robin's Creator.

“Death,” Creator says, and he sounds wretched, sounds sad, and Death closes it's eyes.

“Creator,” it murmurs, and it leaves the world of consciousness, safe in Creator's hands.

Colin wakes up in a hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am ridiculously proud of myself. I had like a thousand words written for _ages_ now, but I didn't know what to put next, so last night I said fuck it, let's put Colin in here, and here it is!
> 
> Also, I got my hair cut, and I now have _bangs_ that I am ridiculously overly happy about.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why the sudden interest in him? He's pretty typical,” Jason asks, rain pounding against his helmet, and Damian rolls his eyes, eyes falling again on Death.
> 
> “Haven't you heard? He was tortured by Crane, and the only to survive the experiments,” Damian says instead of shouting that he is anything _but_ typical.
> 
> Odd and unnatural, that's what Damian and Death are. Strange things that stick together.
> 
> It's not so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a schedule for this fic again! Which means more updates more often! Rejoice! Rejoice!

_Death had come to me only a week ago,_ Damian thinks wildly as his creation’s eyes closed, black smoke dissipating into thin air, and he holds him closer, hang tangled in greasy red hair. _How is he here now instead of still being in the womb?_

And how-why-

Damian stands, holding Death with one arm underneath his knees and the other around his back, and Death's head rolls against his shoulder, ironically lifeless. Rage curls around the fear in Damian's chest, and _oh_ how Crane is lucky he is dead, because this is _Death,_ one of Damian's only companions, and before now, one of his only friends. Crane is fortunate that Death got to him first, because what _Damian_ would have done would have been far worse than just a simple hit.

Stars burn in his blood, and his ribs ache with the effort of keeping back the flood of meteors, and Damian puts his forehead on Death's, and breathes slowly in order to calm the nuclear explosion in him.

His arms shake with fury that he cannot afford to pacify.

The Central Power Battery starts to crack.

“Robin,” Father strides forward, boots light as ever against the warehouse floor, and Damian tightens his grip on his friend. “We need to go to a hospital."

Damian glares the best he can with the unconscious embodiment of everything his father tries to prevent, and takes a single step back. “A _hospital,”_ he hisses in contempt, and Father's eyebrows rise in surprise, but Damian does not care, _cannot_ care when hospitals are security nightmares and anyone could get to Death.

“We had _luck_ on our side, _luck_ that had a little brat tell us _exactly_ where to find him,” and how thankful is he, for that one child who had shrieked out _Batman_ and told them where to find Crane, "and he's  _the only one to survive this._ Do you really think that _hospital staff_ will be enough?” He spits the words as though they're poison, and Father stares at him.

Normally, _normally_ he would scoff and bite his tongue and look to the side, but not this time. He was almost alone again.

Almost, but not quite. He won't let it happen again, not while Death is defenceless.

Death is possibly the only being on this planet Damian can be himself with; he can't let that pass after eleven years spent lying through his teeth.

Father only nods. “You can watch over him, if you wish,” he offers, and that…

That might be acceptable.

Damian nods once, and gently, with care he's only ever had for those close with him, places him into the Batmobile that Damian himself created.

He doesn't anything else to bring Death to the hospital.

He fusses over Death, places the blanket meant for those sleeping after a long night over him and puts the pillow under his head, and when Father gets into the car and starts driving, Damian doesn't move from where he's kneeling beside his oldest comrade in keeping things the way they should be.

They don't speak, Father by habit, and Damian by focusing on Death, and the moment they reach the hospital, Damian leaves him by the ER, and watches as nurses rush to him, scarlet blood a dead giveaway, and Death is instantly rolled into surgery.

Tension is a live wire in him, electricity crackling in his eyes, and only Damian can see the way Death let's out his presence slightly in drugged sleep.

Father leaves at some point. Damian doesn't care, still watching the way Death breathes with lungs that are not rotting in his body, and if anyone thinks that they're going to get him away, then they have a battle on their hands that _will_ include a miniature star in their unmentionables.

Jason drops down beside him throwing a raincoat over his head, and Damian's heart locks up in his throat.

“Hey,” Jason says, voice soft, and Damian tears his gaze away from the sleeping boy in the bed to watch Jason with wide eyes.

“Hey,” Damian replies, dark matter inching beneath his skin, and turns his attention back to Death.

“So, what's that kid's name?"

Damian grits his teeth and wishes for Death to wake up.

“De-” Damian starts to answer without thinking, but he has two secrets to protect now, one his and the other Death's, and Damian _refuses_ to give up then up. “Colin Wilkes,” he says instead, and from the way Jason shifts, he heard his mistake.

 _Fuck,_ he almost revealed it before when Jason left for the first time, but there's more at stake her; he can't be trusting everyone. The only person he can trust is Death.

And maybe himself.

But mostly Death.

“Why the sudden interest in him? He's pretty typical,” Jason asks, rain pounding against his helmet, and Damian rolls his eyes, stare falling again on Death.

“Haven't you heard? He was tortured by Crane, and the only to survive the experiments,” Damian says instead of shouting that he is anything _but_ typical.

Odd and unnatural, that's what Damian and Death are. Strange things that stick together.

It's not so bad.

Jason hums, legs dangling over the rooftop, and Damian subtly adjusts gravity to make sure he doesn't fall. “That kid? He has so many issues it's not even funny,” he says, and it's casually cruel, and Damian growls without realizing it.

“Like you have any room to talk,” he snaps back, and Jason laughs, harsh and bitter.

“And nobody knows that better than me, kid,” he replies, and Damian recoils, guilt weighing him down like gravity has any lasting hold on him, silence reigning unchallenged for a few minutes before Damian gathers his courage.

“... Sorry,” he offers, and Jason grunts.

Damian closes his eyes, tests the words on his tongue. “He's special. I don't want him taken just because he is.”

He's thinking of the millions of those enslaved, the millions that he can't save, the millions of prisoners for some person's sick joke, and he knows that Death can take care of himself, but he-

He would like to save one person.

Jason makes a noise of understanding, and Damian doesn't look at him as he stands, water sliding to his neck from his helmet, and Death is still asleep.

“Good luck,” Jason tells him, and Damian doesn't have enough faith in his voice not to crack, so he waves as his older brother leaves, and settles in to wait.

He doesn't have to wait long, considering it's around two, but it's three in the morning, and Damian's fallen into a doze when Gotham rumbles at him that the other god has awoken.

Damian's awake in an instant, giving a thank you that's more of an imprint of his emotions as he swings through the open window.

* * *

Colin is warm and there is an obvious lack of bodies around him.

He's distinctly aware that is _wrong,_ that there should be ice creeping into his bones, that there should be frightened children surrounding him.

He opens his eyes, sits up, and-

Colin's back against the bed again, blinking at the ceiling as another person hugs the air out of him..

Huh.

“You _useless,_ immortal _idiot,_ I swear if you do anything like this again-”

Colin blinks again, incredulous this time instead of confusion, and when he flicks his eyes downward, it is certainly Creator embracing his chest, still mumbling insults, and Colin hesitantly does the same.

“Creator,” he asks numbly, and Creator abruptly pulls away, giving him an irritated glance.

“My name is Damian, Death, please use it,” Crea- _Damian_ tells him, and is more of an order than a request, but that's fine with Colin. As long as it doesn't disrupt his work, he'll follow orders.

So he sits up again, bows his head slightly, murmurs, “Yes, Damian” and waits, stages of rot ticking by in a deer's corpse miles away.

Damian hesitates, and Colin can read him like a book, so he knows that he's torn between scolding him for his recklessness and asking a question.

So he waits some more, but only for a second, because Damian clears his throat and sits down in the type of uncomfortable hospital chair Colin's been in many times before with a heavy sigh.

“Death, how are you here?”

Colin smiles at the words, because it's something that's been his secret for centuries, ever since he wanted to go back and tear some soul apart for despicable actions as soon as he died, but didn't when he had the chance.

“I can go back to any death as long as it's already happened. I just put myself in place of the soul that was going to leave so early, so instead of a miscarriage, my mother had me. She died during birth.”

Damian frowns, and his confusion is as easy to see as a flame. Colin giggles a bit at the smoke rising from his nose as he breathes.

It's possible that he may be high on pain meds.

“But, how did she survive the pregnancy,” he says, and Colin bursts into laughter, because it is just that funny.

“I held back _everything,”_ he laughs, and Damian's face turns horrified and that just makes everything that much more hilarious.

“That must have been-”

“Oh, it was the most painful thing I've ever felt,” Colin agrees, chuckles escaping as he puts his face into a pillow to hide his tears.

He just wants to sleep.

“She gave me the name Colin. She died like two minutes after that. I. It's the first time I've ever hated myself,” Colin admits, and he can't seem to stop talking, there's death in his blood and molasses in his veins, and lightning in his mind, and everything suddenly is too small, too too small, holy _shit-_

“Colin!”

Colin breathes. The room’s back to normal, ten feet on each side, and Damian is gripping his face, eyes panicked and scared, and why does he do that? Why does he hurt everything he touch?

“You don't,” Damian says, and he's soothing, reassuring enough that Colin chokes on a sob and lays his head against Damian's shoulder, that Venom will forever be in his body, and it sears through his heart and mind and-

Damian holds him, kisses his forehead, and simply lets him break.

It's well overdue, if Colin's being perfectly honest with himself, but it just _hurts_ so much.

“I _hate_ what I do,” Colin says, voice barely a whisper, and Damian hums low in his chest at the words, and Colin can hear the swirl of a black hole between his lungs.

“It's natural,” Damian says quietly, and Colin _knows_ that. It's completely natural, it's just-

“I've killed more people than I can count,” Damian starts, and Colin tangles his fingers in his cape as he sucks in air. “I'm known to you as Creator, but I've destroyed more than I've made. You only represent Death, but you make living beings’ souls, and that,” he sighs heavily and rests his chin on Colin's head. “That is more than I can say.”

Colin blinks, heart rate slowing and his lips twist into a frown as Damian slumps over, green eyes dull and filled with voids that kill any light near them. “All I do is just-”

Colin taps his arm, and a child's soul screams. “You made _everything._ But things reach an end, and so you do your duty in making it so that the materials can make new things.”

Damian laughs, shattered planets in his throat. “That's what I was trying to tell you.”

“And it's no different for you,” Colin counters, and he softens as Damian shakes his head. “It is,” he insists, because they are conquerors and gods, and still young despite living since the beginning. “We make mistakes. It can't be helped.”

Damian scoffs, a _tt_ sound coming that has Colin smiling a little. “I just hate how almost everything I've done is hurting,” Colin admits, and nudges Damian to do the same, but the one who created him only gives a small uplift of the lips, and, yeah, that's enough for now.

“I'm going back to sleep. You can stay if you want,” Colin says as he let's go and leans back against his-

“Crap,” he yelps, because he just removed that pillow, and _this is going to hurt-_

Damian catches him, one hand curled around his side as he places the pillow behind him. “Thanks,” Colin says, and a bit of the bed is rusted.

Damnit, he was getting so good at hiding his powers.

Damian doesn't seem to notice, too busy grabbing three new pillows and stuffing them behind Colin's back with his tongue stuck out between his lips.

“Why do you only have one pillow,” Damian asks, and Colin shrugs.

"I'm not sure. I'm only the patient.”

Damian scowls and pushes him down into the mountain of pillows. “Just sleep. I'll keep watch.”

Colin rolls his eyes in amusement and buries himself into the blanket. “Okay. Goodnight, Damian.”

“It's more morning.”

“Whatever.”

(Souls shriek in the rooms around him, but Colin's grown up in Gotham. He's learned how to tune them out.)

* * *

They move him to a orphanage run by nuns.

Colin squints at the building, Rory in one hand and the other holding his bag full of newspaper clippings and clothes, and wonders what the hell they're supposed to be worshipping.

He's never heard of God, much less ever seen him in all the years he's been alive. Why do they worship a thing that doesn't exist?

And _he_ created Earth?

Colin snorts and shoulders his bag as a nun leads him inside. No, _Damian_ made Earth from the red hot rubble floating in space. It had taken _thousands_ of years for it to be even habitable, not mere days, and humans _certainly_ never popped up like that.

Colin should know. He made the first human souls, after all, and there's no such thing as Adam and Eve, much less the Devil.

 _Well,_ Colin allows as he drifts off in thought, remembering the way human souls glow, the way that it had warmed Colin and giggled at the way he had run a finger down the cyan colored soul of a baby, _we may very well be devils._

Colin laughs at that, a sleeve of his too-large jacket sliding down a arm as he throws his bag into the bed and looks around. It's pretty simple, a bed and a dresser with a window, and Colin is completely fine with this. It's more than he's gotten before.

Mud slides through his veins, and Colin grimaces at the feeling, rubbing his arm in irritation, because _really?_

He's tempted to just dissolve the Venom, but he doesn't know what that will do to his body, so he guesses that he'll have to live with this for the rest of his human life.

He's starting to regret killing Crane.

The window opens, and Damian slips through, hood covering his hair and feet bearing worn shoes that Colin is _sure_ he bought in a thrift store, and thumps to the ground.

His shoes light up.

Colin stares, and starts to break into a smile, and Damian slams a hand over his mouth a moment before he cackles.

“It's a disguise,” Damian hisses, and Colin licks his palm. “Ugh!”

“You know you like them,” Colin retorts, and pokes Damian in the side, snorting when he let's out a suppressed squeak of protest.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Damian slowly smirks, and Colin has a moment of _oh no_ before he's tackled to the ground, and then he's laughing hysterically as Damian tickles his stomach mercilessly.

“Stop, stop,” he begs in between breaths, and Damian doesn't stop for a _second,_ not until Colin's practically crying and not fighting anymore.

“That will teach you to keep your mouth shut,” Damian gloats, snugness in every word, and Colin wheezes out a screw you.

Because, really. Screw him.

Damian reaches out for his neck, and Colin rolls to the side, Damian falling onto the floor without Colin’s legs to sit on, and Colin barks out a triumphant laugh.

“Take that, ye pagan god!”

Damian gasps in fake outrage, a grin spreading on his lips as he stands. “I am not merely a pagan god, you mortal,” he cries out, pointing dramatically at Colin, who does his best to look back in indignation.

“Then what are ye,” Colin answers, scrunching up one eye and scewing his words.

“I am,” Damian throws his arms out, and one hits Colin's face. “A cosmic god!”

“I doubt it, you hooligan pagan god! You are no match for _God!”_

Damian stifles what seems like a laugh, and honesty Colin is hanging onto this game by a thread because he knows it's been far too long since Damian played like he should.

“God, _God?_ There is no such thing as God,* he proclaims grandly, and Colin finally starts to laugh at the theatrics. “There is only I and Death!”

Colin's face burns and he grabs Rory, burying his face in his stomach as Damian continues, and, yeah, this is nice. No more lies, no more pretending, no more acts.

It's nice, even when Damian grabs his hands and says, "Death is real, he is right here,” and drags him to his feet showing him off to Rory.

It's nice.

* * *

This “Colin” kid is suspicious.

Jason doesn't know why, but his gut tells him that this kid is _dangerous,_ perhaps more dangerous than even Darkseid, and it's been bothering him all week.

He has mental issues, and he _killed Crane._

That's more than enough reason, but it's something _more,_ something that lurks just out of reach, and Jason can't grasp it yet.

Maybe he's more like Damian; a power at his fingertips that's more than what he wanted, that's more deadly than anyone has ever dreamed, and he's caught up in the hurricane.

Maybe he's just a kid and Jason's protective instincts are rearing their heads again, unsettled by the way he forgot his younger brother, angry about the fact that he lost him.

But still. Colin Wilkes is on his watch list, if only for the way Damian's so protective of him.

He doesn't want his brother to be hurt again, and he will do _anything_ to make sure it doesn't happen.

For now, he'll settle for keeping watch, no matter how much it grates at him, but the minute Colin Wilkes hurts his brother, he'll be in trouble.

Not that much. He's still just a kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also in math class while I post this so forgive any mistakes. >-<


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ping and a communication line opens, and Damian blinks at the symbol in the corner of the screen.
> 
> “Oh,” he whispers, and Colin pokes his head out from behind the dinosaur leg with a frown.
> 
> “What's wrong?”
> 
> “It's. That's _Dick Grayson,”_ Damian answers, and his voice is almost silent, eyes wide, heart pounding, because that's _Dick calling the Batcave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo yo yo sorry I didn't update last week! I got caught up in something else! But I finished it!
> 
> Woohoo?
> 
> Whatever.
> 
> I FINALLY HAVE AN IDEA AS TO WHY JASON LOST HIS MEMORY HA-FUCKING-HA I GOT THIS SHIT THIS SHIT IS G O T.

Dick hates that he had to do this, hates that he had to leave his family behind, hates that he's burying his grief for Damian's death under Spyral, but he's doing it. He hates it. Hates that he made his family think that they lost yet another in such a short amount of time.

Hate, hate, hate.

It festers, his mom always told him as she bandaged the scrapes from learning his parents’ profession, and it never quite goes away. It only becomes stronger.

Dick thinks that she's right, his mom. She always was. Hate growls in his mind, paces in the cage he's shut it behind in his heart, snaps at those who get too close, because hate is a beast, a monster trapped inside him, and sometimes it gets too strong for him to hold back, and those are the worst days.

Hate hate hate.

It's all he feels right now, a snarling, shrieking _thing_ that he can't hope to calm, not when it screams that _his little brother is dead, he's dead, why aren't you_ **_destroying her-_ **

It's hard, at times, to ignore it. It's hard to think back, _I'm doing this so I don't have to lose others,_ because, honestly?

Some days he sits and stares at the wall, hands covering his mouth to keep in his sobs, because it's too much, far too much, because he sees something that Damian would love and suddenly he's catapulted into a black wall of pure _fury._

He's always had anger issues, always had difficulty calming down, always got riled up too fast, and he got over that for Damian, forced himself to calm down because the one time he blew up, Damian had looked scared and refused to speak to him two weeks, only saying one syllable words to him when he did talk.

Dick had went to anger management class after that. Damian's frightened face was the motivation and the way he started to warm up to him the victory.

 _But,_ the beast inside says slowly, and an ugly smile grows on its face, _Damian isn't here. There's no_ **_reason_ ** _to do it anymore._

Dick sighs and closes his book, a headache throbbing behind his eyes. Spyral hasn't done much for him, hasn't been distracting him from the emotions burning inside him, and Dick's tired of it.

He knows that what he's doing is important, but it's so hard to believe that when Damian isn't home, when he knows that everyone will hate him when he comes back.

It's just hard, knowing that when he comes home the only thing he'll see of his baby brother is a grave.

It's just hard.

But he's been raised by Batman, so he gets to his feet and goes to where he can report to Bruce, resolve shaking and trembling, and damn if he isn't tired, damn if he doesn't want to rest.

He gets to his feet and goes anyways.

* * *

Robin and Colin Wilkes have a strictly civilian-superhero friendship, by which Colin wanders around the city and Robin follows him, scaring those who he deemed a threat.

“It's a very professional friendship,” says Robin to Batman, “one that I don’t want to get rid of.”

Colin Wilkes, on the other hand, rolls his eyes and walks away with Robin's hand on his wrist, and he ends up taking Robin with him.

“It's a business like friendship,” Robin says desperately as Colin Wilkes buys him ice cream with what little pocket money he has.

“We're not actually friends,” Robin says as he cleans up Colin Wilkes' injuries and gives a deadly glare to Penguin.

Colin Wilkes huffs a breath, hooks an arm around Robin's shoulders and drags him to the Orphanage, telling him to _sleep, dammit._

“Okay,” Robin admits as he wakes up from twelve hours of sleep with Colin curled around him. “We may be friends.”

 _(Damian Wayne_ on the other hand meets Colin Wilkes when they run into each other in the street, and promptly latches onto him like a leech.

Colin smiles, pats Damian's head, and goes on with his life despite the cameras flashing at them.

When asked, Damian Wayne says Colin is a friend that he never thought he'd see again, and leaves it at that.)

* * *

It's been two months since Damian found Colin again, and he decides that it's time for his fellow immortal to see the Batcave.

“So,” Damian says as Colin reads his new comic book to him, and Colin hums quietly as he turns the page.

“So,” Damian says again, and Colin looks up at him, raising an eyebrow at the way that light sparks from his skin, and grins.

“What,” Colin asks, and Damian flicks a stray pebble at him, the stone turning red hot in the air, and Colin frosts it over without looking away. “What,” he repeats, and Damian groans.

“Do you want to see the Batcave,” he asks, already dreading it. Colin finds bats adorable and hilarious, but he hates being near them for the oddest reason, and there are bats in the Batcave because Father is a dramatic man with an aesthetic that he refuses to give up.

It drives Damian up the wall sometimes.

Colin brightens and scoots closer, worn sneakers hanging by a toe as he leans in. “I can?”

Damian puts a hand on his face and pushes him away. Too close, in Damian's opinion, because he's learned that close proximity with another person will inevitably lead to pain, and he doesn't want that right at this moment. “Yes,” he says in exasperation as his friend falls on his back. “I _just_ asked you if you wanted to.”

Colin raises himself on his elbows with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. So when can I see it?”

Well…

“Father isn't home, Pennyworth is out, Jason,” his breath hitches and Colin throws him a worried look. “Jason is with his Outlaws.”

“And Tim?”

Damian laughs and flicks him on the shoulder. “He's with the Titans. I think...I think that Grayson may have been the one that didn't let him fall apart when I was gone. And now…”

Colin nods, grimacing at the reminder of Dick's disappearance as he pulls Damian into a hug. “So, we can go today?”

Damian sighs heavily and closes his eyes, the scratch of an old shirt on his face. “Yes, I suppose.”

Colin rubs his back and holds him close for a moment before saying, “You wanna go now?”

Damian smiles. Death knows him so well.

“Yes, let's,” he agrees, and sits up, absently rubbing at his eyes. As ever, the reminder of the fact that Dick isn't here anymore is a punch to the gut, because no matter what Damian does he can't find anything to give him more than a dead end.

He's come to Colin's bedroom shaking and nearly in tears before, because _dammit_ he thought that he was so close to bringing his older brother home, but he's _never_ been able to.

It's just difficult to not see the similarities to Jason.

Damian's only hoping that Dick hasn't forgotten him.

Colin taps him on the shoulder and hands him his cape, and shrugs on his jacket as Damian opens the window.

“Let's go,” Damian says softly, and jumps out, Colin not a second behind him.

They both land without a sound, and Damian snorts when Colin shivers in the cold. “Just let me get you better clothes,” he complains as they get in his bike, and Colin laughs.

“I've had worse. I'll live,” he says, and Damian scowls, the engine roaring to life before lowering to a purr.

“You're friends with _me,”_ Damian says instead of _who the fuck gave you terrible clothes, tell me so that I can beat them to a pulp_ like he wants to. “I can buy you anything, just say the word.”

It's the truth. Damian has money set aside for whenever Colin says he wants something, because his friend is nothing but living humbly. The only thing Damian's managed to buy him without getting a _look_ is one comic book.

One. Comic book.

Damian wants to smack Colin upside the head.

Three dollars is nothing to him! Three hundred is nothing! A brand new _car_ is nothing!

Damian's had investments in businesses for years, his family is filthy rich, _and_ Mother's left him with enough money to last him five lifetimes.

He can literally buy the moon.

Colin shakes his head. “I'm good,” he says like an idiot with no idea of what Damian will do to make his life better.

Damian sighs and nods, and that's that. For now, at least.

 _Someday,_ Damian thinks, and presses a button to open the hatch. _I will move you into the Manor and you will live like you are meant to._

Air rushes past them, bites their cheeks as they speed into the cave, and Colin's little gasp of shock is _so_ worth the trouble Damian will most likely be in once Father finds out that he let Colin in here.

 _“This_ is the Batcave,” Colin asks incredulously, and Damian smirks as his friend runs around, dirty shoelaces slapping the ground with each step.

“Yep.”

“How do the computers _work_ in here?”

Ah, Damian thinks with amusement curling in his gut. “We have our own power source, completely off the grid,” he explains, and Colin looks up from the Batcomputer, waving his hand in irritation.

“That's not what I mean,” he says as he clicks on a file for an ongoing case. “I _mean_ how does the water in here not affect them?”

Damian frowns. He's never thought of that, and it's mildly uncomfortable. The water in the stone, and the simple fact that they're in a _cave_ must have affected the computer _somehow._

Hmph. Not important.

“Not sure,” he says as he comes up behind Colin, and Colin laughs at that.

“Creator isn't sure of something,” he mocks, and Damian kicks him in the leg as he pulls himself up on the desk, feet dangling above the ground.

“And neither is Death,” he shoots back, and Colin rolls his eyes before heading over to the giant coin.

Once Colin's thoroughly distracted with the souvenirs Father's collected over the years, Damian allows himself to slump over in relief.

He'd been afraid that Colin's claustrophobia would act up.

To be honest, Damian understands that. He himself had it until he was five, until Mother locked him into a closet for a week regardless of his screams and sobs, told him that it's to remove a weakness, but Damian could only shriek and gasp for air because it's _too small, Mother, it's too_ **_small-_ **

Jason had rescued him in the end, come back after a mission to Damian having clawed his fingers raw trying to escape. He'd opened the door to find Damian crying with his hands over his ears, and he'd been horrified.

Damian didn't see his mother for a month after.

For him and Colin-

Small spaces were new. And unnatural.

They hated it, and hate it still, but only Damian can stand them for an extended amount of time.

He hates what Talia did to him.

Damian sighs and shifts as Colin laughs excitedly from some corner.

A ping and a communication line opens, and Damian blinks at the symbol in the corner of the screen.

“Oh,” he whispers, and Colin pokes his head out from behind the dinosaur leg with a frown.

“What's wrong?”

“It's. That's _Dick Grayson,”_ Damian answers, and his voice is almost silent, eyes wide, heart pounding, because that's _Dick calling the Batcave._

Colin's mouth opens in a little 'o’ and glances at him.

“Are you going to answer?”

Damian nods his head, earthquakes beneath his toes and nuclear fission hissing in his ears as he clicks the symbol.

It pulses, and Dick's voice, easy and rolling as ever fills the cave.

“B? It's me. I have some information.”

Damian stops breathing, and Colin tugs him off the counter, holds his hand to give him so stability and nods.

Damian takes a deep breath that's weighed down by a black hole and replies in his father's voice.

“What information,” he says, and Damian can practically _see_ Dick's grin.

“Oh, you'll love this. Okay, so the big guy in charge…”

Damian can barely think, can barely breathe because Dick's calling, he's _calling_ and he's not here, he's _not here why is he not here?_

Colin sets him down into the chair, and takes notes, knuckles white as he grips the pen, and Damian is in a daze. Dick's _alive,_ where is here?

Why is here not here with him?

 _Fuck,_ Damian thinks as he curls up, tears stinging his eyes as Dick's voice washes over him.

Dick falters, takes a breath, and says, “I know that you miss Damian, B. I know that I have to do this, but.”

A sigh crackles over the speakers. “I just want to come home.”

Damian lurches forward, shoots to his feet with the power of the Milky Way at his fingertips, because he can _do that,_ he can bring Dick home, he _can-_

Colin steadies him with a hand on his arm. _Don't,_ he mouths at him, face pale. _You can't._

Power fizzles away.

“Anyways. I have to go. I just...hope that you know that you're not the only one who misses him.”

Damian sucks in a agonized breath at that. Dick _misses him._

The cave shakes as he takes a step towards the screen.

“Bye.”

The call ends, and Damian's left staring at the screen, ready to shatter into pieces in the way that only his loved ones can make him.

“He's with a thing called Spyral,” Colin says suddenly, and Damian blinks at the way a snarl warps his face into something ugly.

“I've had a lot of souls come from that place. It's _not_ pretty.”

Damian grabs onto that information with the desperation of a dying man and forces a smirk.

“Well, we have a place to start, don't we,” he asks, and Colin grins at him, dark and amused and every bit Death.

Damian grins back, savage and with the stars between his teeth as something like victory sings through his veins.

“Yeah. We do.”

* * *

Jason scowls as he starts to put his gun back together at his table, Roy yawning beside him as he blearily drinks his coffee.

“What's got you in a bad mood,” Roy teases, and Jason spits a curse, slamming the half put together gun on the table.

“Fucking _Wilkes,”_  he hisses, and Roy _laughs_ at him, the bastard.

“That kid Damian's been hanging with,” he says, and Jason “accidentally” knocks the mug of coffee into his best friend's lap.

Roy yelps a _fuck you, Jason_ and Jason starts to cackle as Roy dances around the kitchen in pain, face as red as his arrows.

“Shut up,” Roy says and Jason flips him off as he returns to his gun.

There's quiet for a long minute, and as Roy does the equivalent of sitting on him until he screams uncle - he throws crumbled up paper towels at him because he's actually a five year old - Jason finally cracks.

“I'm just worried. The kid’s been through a lot, you know,” he starts, and Roy hums, throwing another paper towel at his face. “Will you stop that?”

“Nope,” Roy chuckles, low and easy as he leans back in his chair, and Jason's face burns. Hey, even he can notice when someone is being attractive.

“Goddamnit, this is why I don't like you,” he complains, and Roy squawks in offence, all handsomeness disappearing in an instant.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Jason retorts, Roy glaring at him the whole time.

“Okay, whatever, you hate me. Just tell me why you hate this kid,” Roy says tiredly, all humor gone, and Jason lowers his gaze to the gun.

“I just...I have this feeling. About him,” he says, and tries to explain the twisting in his gut that he gets when Wilkes comes near. “It's kinda like when you get near a killer, or something that's way more powerful than you.”

Roy raises an eyebrow, but nods, and Jason takes a deep breath. “I don't know. The kid creeps me out for some reason. I don't like him, and I don't want him near Damian.”

Roy frowns a bit. “Like when you first meet Clark?”

Jason snaps his fingers. “That's it. He can destroy you with a flick of his wrist. And I know that's ridiculous, but-”

“But you can't help it,” Roy finishes, and _fuck_ if this isn't at least half the reason why he's Jason's best friend. He knows what's going on with him, because he lives the same life as him, and damn if it isn't awesome.

“Exactly,” Jason groans, and Roy reaches over to pap his cheek.

“Don't be too sad, Jaybird, it'll be fine,” he says, and Jason closes his eyes to savor the simple contact that Roy gives so freely, fingers curling around Roy's wrist.

“I know. It's just. Have I told you about my memories?”

Roy frowns in confusion, and Jason already feels like a piece of shit. Why can't he do things right, like talk about what's going on?

“No,” Roy says slowly, and Jason discards the gun, already dreading the conversation. But he's the one who brought it up, and it needs to be said _anyways,_ so he figures that now's the best time to do it.

“Before I was resurrected, Talia was taking care of me. And… Damian was too. He was actually the person who made sure I was still breathing most of the time, actually. So when Talia threw me into the Pit, Damian was there to make sure I survived after.” Jason shifts uncomfortably as Roy's eyes turn piercing. “When I stayed with them, Damian and I ended up becoming something like family. It was… Nice.”

Jason smiles, a little nostalgic and little sweet. “We did the weirdest things to get out of training, and I looked out for him since Talia didn't seem to realize that he was only a kid. She once left him in the middle of the desert and expected him to make it back.” He shudders, remembering the way that Damian had clung to him, hot and dry and _begging_ for water. It had been terrifying, and he'd ended up arguing with Talia for three hours as Damian slept off his exhaustion.

“I tried the best I could, but when she seemed to be letting up, I left to go train more.” God, how off the mark could he have been? He was always fighting with Talia on Damian's safety and health, mental or otherwise, and he feels like an idiot for thinking she'd been getting better at realizing her son's limits. He'd been wrong, and it sits heavy in his gut. “I kept in touch with him, of course, but one day I just. Stopped. I didn't remember him.”

Jason leans back and stares at the ceiling. “I only remembered when he was dead. So I'm a bit over overprotective.”

Roy lunges across the table to pull him into a hug. “It's fine. You feel like a sack of shit for forgetting him. It's fine, it's not your fault.”

As always, Roy went straight to the point. He could see through Jason's bullshit with no problem, and normally Jason would find it irritating, but right now he's thankful for it.

“How do you know,” he asks into Roy's shoulder, and his friend's frame vibrates as he laughs.

“You don't just forget someone as important as Damian is to you without someone fucking with your head,” he says, and, well, that's something Jason can't argue against, so he relaxes and let's Roy baby him for a bit.

 _It's fine,_ he tells himself. _Everything will be_ **_fine._ **

He can't really believe his own words, Roy approved or not.

He puts it out of his mind, groaning when Roy pulls out some new contraption, but he's smiling, so Roy obviously takes it as a win.

Later, when they're curled up on the couch with Kori out getting food, Jason says, “Thank you.”

Roy only grins and throws a arm around his shoulders. “What are best friends for,” he replies cheerfully, and not for the first time Jason realizes how lucky he is to have Roy as a friend.

He pities anyone who doesn't, because Roy is the best, but also doesn't because if everyone had Roy he wouldn't have time for Jason, and that's something that just can't happen. Ever.

(The thought that Colin Wilkes might have something to do with his memory loss nags at his mind, but Jason let's it go.

He'll return to it later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With that in mind, what did you guys think?
> 
> ... I hope I didn't fuck up Roy...


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kori grabs him by the wrist and flies out the window, eyes glowing a green that reminds him of the Lazarus Pit Jason emerged from all those years ago and hovers over the city, and Jason doesn't know what the fuck she's doing.
> 
> He doesn't want to find out, but she makes him as she draws close to a familiar church and goes to a familiar window.
> 
> “What do you see,” Kori asks, and Jason doesn't want to answer, because-
> 
> Because he sees Damian in bed with Wilkes, sleeping peacefully with Wilkes curled around him as if to keep him safe, as if he's trying to shield him from the world outside. He sees Damian _safe_  
>  and content in where he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colin!!! And Damian!! Are so!! Fun to write!!
> 
> Like they're so old they're DOMESTIC.
> 
> IT'S SO FUN.
> 
> I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.
> 
> (Also Kori is amazing and obviously needs to be queen of something.
> 
> Queen of Hard Advice ™)

Colin is beginning to think that he really should invest in another blanket, because this is starting to get annoying.

Damian curls up further, blanket knotted between his legs and Colin's left with a scrap of fabric.

_ Maybe another pillow too, _ Colin muses as he yanks the blanket towards him, and Damian opens his eyes a little, glaring at him and Colin stares back.

“I'm freezing,” he tells him, and Damian narrows his eyes until they're slits. “Don't look at me like that, you're the one hogging the blanket.” Damian scowls as Colin pulls on the blanket more and snuggles into what pillow he has. “Blanket pig.”

“I'm not a blanket pig,” Damian grumps, and Colin scoffs.

“You so are. I've put up with it for weeks now, and I've had enough,” Colin counters, and Damian shoves him out of bed.

He hits the ground with a thump, and squints at the ceiling as Damian breaks out into laughter. “Shut up,” he says, and Damian just laughs harder, snorts mixing into the sound, and Colin twitches a finger, making the bed creak ominously as the wood rots a bit.

Damian looks over the edge of the mattress and glowers at him. “Colin, stop it.”

“Give me back my blanket,” Colin retorts, and Damian throws his cape over him.

“Just go back to sleep.”

“Fine,” Colin says and crawls back into bed, ungraceful and awkward as only being awake at two thirty in the morning can make a person, and Damian snorts when he collapses face first onto his pillow.

“Oh, shut up,” he groans, voice muffled by the pillow, and Damian shakes his head a little. “It's not like you haven't done that before.”

“Actually,” Damian starts, smug and oh so not sleeping like Colin  _ knows _ he wants to, “I haven't.”

Colin reaches out an arm and gropes for his friend's face, grinning tiredly in triumph when he feels it. “Go to sleep,” he says, and closes Damian's eyes for him, since he's determined _ not _ to do as his body demands he do.

Damian yawns, which proves Colin's point. “No."

Colin shifts so that he laying on his side and looking at his creator in the face. “I am aware,” he says, Venom trudging through his blood like exhausted soldiers at war, “that you were forced into thinking that sleep is for the weak."

Damian opens his mouth to protest, and Colin puts a hand over his lips because he is talking, and does not want interruptions. “But sleep is very good for you,” he continues, wrinkling his nose as Damian licks at his hand, “and with your sleep schedule, you need all the sleep you can get. So you, dear, need to go to sleep, or I swear by the fake god these nuns worship that I will _ make you.” _

Damian squints at him. “Did you just call me dear?”

Colin rolls his eyes hard enough that his head moves with it and wipes the spit on Damian's tunic. “Yes, I did,” he says. “Now go to sleep, you idiot.”

Damian huffs, pulling the blanket up to his chin and kicking Colin as he pulls his knees to his waist. Colin hisses at the bite of pain and scoots closer to get more warm.

Gotham is cold, and Colin's room is the same, dammit. Damian can share.

Colin ends up with Damian's head on his collarbone as he drifts off to sleep and their legs tangled together, but Colin is warm, and that's all he really cares about, so he pulls Damian into his chest and rests his chin on his head, and resolutely ignores the way his body feels like it's breaking down, fire sparking and burning through the toxin.

It goes away, after all, and Colin doesn't care much for it.

_ Besides, _ he thinks drowsily,  _ it's not like it can keep me down for long. _

He falls asleep to that thought, and he doesn't know how much he's wrong, because when he wakes up, it's to Damian shaking him frantically and his muscles locking up.

“What's going on,” he breathes, and Venom is in his mouth, he can taste it on his tongue, and his fingers spasm at his sides, pain shooting up his legs.

Damian looks near hysterical, grip tightening on his arms and Colin gasps as fire licks at his lungs, scorches his heart, and he can't  _ breath. _

Smoke chokes him, clogs his throat and spills past his lips and Damian picks him up, moves him until he's clinging to his back and Colin almost screams. All that comes out is a wheeze that doesn't even move Damian's hair.

“You be fine,” Damian says, and to Colin it sounds like he's underwater, like he's drowning, and he's never felt pain like this, never felt like he's going to break apart at the seams, but he _ knows _ that this will pass.

It always does.

“Pu’ me dow’,” he mumbles, and Damian shoots him a look as he opens the window.

“No. I'm going to take you to Father and we're going to find out what the hell is going on with you,” he snaps, and Colin feels as though something is going to happen soon, something is going to give fuel to these sparks of flame, and he doesn't know what it is, but he knows that he doesn't want Batman, doesn't want _ Bruce Wayne _ to see it.

So when Damian reaches the ground, Colin flails and falls onto his back, gasps escaping his mouth as he tries to keep quiet, and Damian's fluttering around him as purple-black overtakes his vision and tar drips from his nose, and he arches his back with a shout with a forest fire burning in his blood and his bones _ ache- _

He stops.

His body is much larger than it usually is, and he's only been this size once.

Damian gapes at him as he stands, knees shaking as he leans against a tree, and the wind bites at his skin, shirt in tatters on the dirt, and he closes his eyes. The bark is rough against him, and he's hyper sensitive right now, can't think beyond the echo of pain rattling around that makes him clench his teeth.

“What… Just happened,” he finally says, and slumps to the ground.

“I don't know,” Damian says helplessly, and Colin laughs, amazed as always that his creator doesn't know something, because he's always had the answers, always been able to answer his questions, and now he's just as clueless as everyone else. Damian drifts near, hesitating before he touches Colin's arm, kneeling beside him with his brow creased in worry.

“Colin,” he says, and Colin smiles at him with too big teeth and nudges him gently.

“I'm gonna go okay.”

Damian sighs and sits down, leaning against his side and Colin drops an arm around his side, and Damian winces.

“Shit,” Colin swears, and immediately removes it. “I'm sorry.”

“It's fine,” Damian waves it off and thumps his head on the tree. “What are we going to do with this,” he asks, and Colin shrugs his massive shoulders.

“Not sure, but I'm pretty sure Venom has something to do with it,” he says, and, yep, the serum is running freely and happily.

Damian grunts unhappily, and Colin shrugs again. “Who knows, maybe I can control it,” he laughs, and Damian turns to him with something bright in his eyes, and Colin blinks.

“I was joking,” he says, and Damian doesn't break eye contact.

Colin considers it, one hand pulling at the dirt beside him and pulling up roots as he thinks. “I… Can try to slow down the Venom,” he says hesitantly, and Damian nods, the smog behind his head clearing with each motion.

“Do it,” he demands, and Colin's terrible at denying him sometimes, so he tries.

The Venom inside him is reluctant to be anything but fast, but Colin has over a millennia between his ears, and he will not yield to a human made poison that he can control.

It slows.

Colin blinks as his body  _ grows smaller. _

“Huh,” he says as he stares at his suddenly tiny hands. “That happened.”

Damian's sudden, sweet smile is worth every ounce of pain, Colin decides, and nothing will ever convince him otherwise.

* * *

 

Damian's been running on three hours of sleep for the past four days, so he thinks that he can be excused when he throws his arms around Colin's shoulders and clings. It's been a very exhausting day, his best friend can turn into a behemoth monster of a man at will, said best friend is also Death, he's a cosmic god who knows nothing about the species he is at the moment and is going about blind in that respect, and his life is a mess.

“... That was my favorite shirt” Colin says mournfully as he stares at the red fabric.

Damian gives crazed laugh and sits back on his heels without letting go.. “I'll buy you a billion shirts,” he says, and Colin shakes his head.

“No, it's fine. I'll just wear another.”

Damian pulls away, storms in his eyes as he shakes him. “I can buy you anything you want. Just let me provide a new shirt.”

Colin squints at him. “No.”

“Goddamnit.”

“Sorry,” Colin says without sounding sorry, and stares in dismay at the sky when the clouds decide to be immature idiots and rain on them. “Oh.”

Damian turns his unhappy expression to the sky, and the clouds stop giggling like children. “You need to stop,” he says, and they decide to throw thunder at him. Damian flicks his wrist and a wind blows them into non-existence. The water inside them still laughs as they're whisked away.

“Honestly, it's like they've forgotten I can destroy them completely if I want to,” he grumbles, and Colin grins at him, red hair plastered to his forehead.

“You've been here for like eleven years and haven't done things like that,” he says as he stands and stretches. Damian watches his face for any hint of pain, but the only thing he gets is a small grimace and a twist of the torso. “You wanna go back to bed?”

Damian glances over his shoulder, to the Batcave and all the equipment that he could use to make sure Colin's okay, that he isn't going to die and leave Damian alone again, but then Colin ruffles his hair, and that won't do.

He snarls and shoves Colin's hand off, but he let's his friend lead him back up the wall and shove him back into bed, and the planets churn above, forever moving and forever murmuring, and Damian falls asleep to Colin settling a blanket over him and bustling about his room.

It's a good thing to fall asleep to, in all honesty.

* * *

“We have not left Gotham in some time.”

Jason looks up from his book, and there Kori is, eyes glowing poison green and red hair like fire.

Yikes.

“Yeah, and,” he says warily as he puts a bookmark between the pages and closes the book.

“When will we leave?”

“I'm not sure,” Jason replies truthfully, and Kori narrows her eyes at him, hair flaring with light.

“I will not stay in this city for much longer,” Kori says, as unmoving as a mountain, as regal as the queen she was born to be, and Jason thinks of Damian, his baby brother so sure that Jason doesn't remember him that he avoids him, and clenches his teeth.

“Yeah, well,” he says, and stands to head for the kitchen. _“I'm_ staying.”

Kori follows him, and he thinks that he's lucky that Roy's out getting food because this _ will _ get nasty if the conversation is going the way Jason thinks it is.

“Why are we here,” she demands, and Jason cringes. “I know that you hate Batman, I know that you hate the villains here,  _ why are we here?” _

“Because,” he grits out as he grabs his helmet from the counter, “my brother needs me.”

“Which brother,” Kori hisses, lightning crackling around her fists. “Dick? He's  _ dead.  _ Tim hasn't been in Gotham for months. And the child is someone you barely even know! So  _ which brother.” _

Anger roars in Jason's ears, memories of the months he spent not knowing, the months he spent insulting his baby brother rising, and he whips around to face her. “Damian,” he shouts, furious and overwhelmed and  _ goddamnit he needs to calm down-  _ “he needs me! I've spent at least five years _ not knowing him _ because my memories were _ stolen _ from me! I've only just got them back!”

“I'm here because I need to make sure my brother is all right, and he _ isn't,”  _ his voice breaks on the last word, tears prickling at his eyes, and Kori stares at him, feet landing softly on the floor. “He isn't all right. I don't think he ever will be.”

“Jason,” Kori’s hands are gentle as she lifts his head. “It is not your fault,” she says, soothing as an ocean and calming as the days when Damian would climb into bed with him after a exhausting bout of training, and puts her forehead on his.

Her hands are warm, Jason thinks absently, and he chases after it, leans forward into her and closes his eyes. “It kind of is,” he says quietly, and Kori sighs.

“It is not your fault that someone removed your memories of him, nor is it your fault of how he was raised,” she tells him, and Jason can't believe her, won't believe, won't in a thousand years because it  _ is. _

_ Jason _ was the one who was supposed to protect him.  _ Jason _ was the one who left him at the mercy of Talia.  _ Jason _ was the one who left.

It _ is _ his fault, and he tells Kori that, tells her that Damian is like this because of him, and she shakes her head so fiercely that he has to move away and open his eyes.

“Jason Todd,” she says, and she's full of fire and her hair is sparking in a way that leaves after images in the air behind her, “listen to me very carefully. You are not at fault.”

“I  _ am,  _ Kori,” he says, and,  _ yes, _ he's pleading,  _ begging _ with her to understand, because he _ is. _

Damian died. It's a stone cold fact that Jason just can't _ take.  _ He loves Damian so much, so so much that it's hard to breath sometimes, loves him so much that Jason thinks that he can't love him any more and then he can. And he _ forgot _ him. Damian died knowing that Jason didn't remember him, and he came back to life with that same assurance, and Jason hates that he did forget, hates whoever fucked with his mind, hates that he didn't remember his baby brother until he was dead, hates how he hasn't found the courage to face him, hates hates _ hates- _

He slams a fist on the table and fights to hold back his tears. “I  _ forgot _ him. He still thinks that I have,” he whispers, voice shaking, and he doesn't know if it's misery or rage or both, and he doesn't care. He _ can't _ care.

Why are emotions so _. Fucking. Hard. _

Kori grabs him by the wrist and flies out the window, eyes glowing a green that reminds him of the Lazarus Pit Jason emerged from all those years ago and hovers over the city, and Jason doesn't know what the fuck she's doing.

He doesn't want to find out, but she makes him as she draws close to a familiar church and goes to a familiar window.

“What do you see,” Kori asks, and Jason doesn't want to answer, because-

Because he sees Damian in bed with Wilkes, sleeping peacefully with Wilkes curled around him as if to keep him safe, as if he's trying to shield him from the world outside. He sees Damian _ safe  _ and content in where he is.

“I will tell you what I see,” Kori says as she settles them onto a branch near the window, and Jason can't take his eyes off his brother. “I see two children taking comfort in each other's presence when everyone around them are too stupid, selfish, or scared to do what they must. I see a child trying to protect his friend when it's too dangerous. I see two children who need someone.” She turns to him and he blinks sluggishly at her, lost in thought.

“I see two children who need  _ you.” _

Jason looks back at Damian and Wilkes, and deep in sleep without the stress of reality, they look even younger than eleven years.

“I can't be that person,” he says helplessly, and Kori scoffs.

“You can. I've seen it,” she says, and it's not a question. It's a statement. “And you will talk to them both _ soon.  _ Or I will force you.”

Jason laughs at that and holds out his arm. “Want to go home,” he asks, and Kori smiles at him.

“Absolutely,” she replies, and they're off into the night, leaving only moonlight to watch over two kids way over their heads.

* * *

 

Tim's tired.

He's just so  _ flipping _ tired.

He stares at his coffee and thinks on the disaster that's his life. He loses his mom, then his dad, then Bruce for a bit, then the Robin title, then the not-so-unshakable belief that his family trusts him, then Damian died, then Dick's identity got revealed, then he died-Tim suspects that isn't true, but then what does he know he's only Tim Drake-

Tim's just tired.

Kon sits down beside him, and when Tim glances over his friend is wearing his old outfit.

“Cassie is going to kill you,” Tim snorts, and Kon grins at him.

“She won't if she doesn't catch me,” he says, and Tim gazes at him, at his leather jacket and bright colors, and starts to laugh, something he hasn't done in forever.

Kon’s grin grows even more at the sound, and Tim thinks that he should laugh more if it makes Kon grin like that.

“Is this why you've been growing out your hair,” Tim asks between chuckles, and Kon nods at him, the idiot. “I hate you so much.”

“Aw, thanks Timmy. I love you too,” Kon cooes teasingly, and Tim laughs harder, resting his face on Kon's shoulder and breathing in the stupid cologne he used back then.

“I hate you so much,” he wheezes, and Kon wraps an arm around him and waits out his exhaustion fueled giggles.

There's silence for a moment, and Tim doesn't want to move, not for the life of him, but then Cassie screams _ Kon,  _ his best friend's laughs, stands, and says, “Want to go flying, Robin?”

Tim looks at Kon's hand for a moment, chugs the rest of his coffee, and says, “Sure thing, Clone Boy.”

He's pulled to his feet, and out the window they go with Cassie chasing them and Bart zipping around below, and Tim laughs throughout it all.

_ Yeah, this is the good life, _ he decides, and although he's still tired, he can ignore it.

He buries his face in Kon's chest and smiles. It vibrates, and Kon's deep laugh reaches him, and Tim loves his team so much.

They deserve better than him.

Kon gives him a shake and tells him to look at the sky, and the view is  _beautiful._

“Wow,” Tim breathes as he looks at the way orange bleeds into purple, and Kon rests his chin on Tim's head.

“We love you, okay,” he says, and Tim's breath hitches in his throat. “We love you. There's no person better suited for our crazy than you. So don't leave us, alright?”

Tim nods without speaking, and as Cassie snatches Bart from the waves and waves at them from below, Tim feels as though he's finally,  _ finally _ starting to piece himself back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil of how Tim's been doing. I was going to do Bruce but then I realized I have no idea how to write Bruce so have some sad-but-getting-better-Tim with friends!
> 
> The Conversation ™ is happening soon but I had to build up to it.
> 
> *Wiggles eyebrows* I can't wait to see your reactions to that.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Damian, I have to _start school soon,”_ Colin whines, and Damian pets his hair in sympathy. He can't actually relate considering the fact that his education was year round and enforced the threat of his mother's rage, but he's heard this a lot lately. “And my friends won't be there since I'm in a different district,” he continues, still plaintive, and Damian frowns down at him.
> 
> “What friends,” he asks, bewildered, and Colin looks at him weirdly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roy!! Harper!! Is a gift!! Upon this Earth!! We!! Are not!! Worthy!!
> 
> Good Lord I need to write more of this man.
> 
> And Alfred.

_With how today has been going,_ Damian thinks as Colin groans beside him, curling up with his head in his lap, _I won't be surprised if Joker escaped._

“Damian, I have to _start school soon,”_ Colin whines, and Damian pets his hair in sympathy. He can't actually relate considering the fact that his education was year round and enforced with the threat of his mother's rage, but he's heard this a lot lately. “And my friends won't be there since I'm in a different district,” he continues, still plaintive, and Damian frowns down at him.

“What friends,” he asks, bewildered, and Colin looks at him weirdly.

“My friends from school,” he says slowly, as if _Damian_ is the one who said something off, and Damian scowls at him.

“You haven't seen anyone outside of me, police, people from the hospital, Crane, the other victims, and people from the church as long as I've known you in this form,” Damian says, still confused and floundering for an explanation. “You've never seen anyone from school.”

Colin makes a face. “Yeah,” he says, “because I'm not in that area.”

Damian squints at him, still not understanding. “But your name was in  the papers. And on the news. And the radio. You were that kid who survived. Why did they not come see you in the hospital?”

Colin shrugs. “I don't know,” he says, and buries his face in Damian's stomach. “School friends don't really see each other outside of school unless they really like each other,” and a tone of bittersweet wistfulness entered his voice then, something like sadness in the angle of his smile, and that’s the end of it.

Damian blinks at that, eyes flickering over his friend’s face, the ground grinding beneath his feet, and pats Colin’s head in comfort. “It’ll be okay,” he says awkwardly, because emotions are not something that he can do well; they perplex and frustrate him at the best of times, and now is no different. Colin smiles up at him, freckles wrinkling and red hair catching the sun, and Damian smiles back, leaning against the bench, and stares at the sky. “You know,” he starts, and Colin hums quietly in question, “when I came down, I didn’t even mean to. I was just looking and then the original soul left in that artificial womb, and before I knew it, I was fit into a baby’s body and I had to wrap up my power, my very being so I did not blow up the planet.”

Colin sits up, eyes wide, and Damian makes a face. “What,” he says, and Colin shakes his head in amazement.

“You mastered _keeping your power under control in an instant,”_ he says, almost a shriek, really, and Damian winces at the volume and wonders where their peaceful and terrible day had went.

“Yes,” he replies, and Colin laughs. “What,” he repeats, and Colin just flops back onto his lap.

“That took me a _week,”_ Colin complains, and Damian flicks his cheek.

“Yes, well, I created the universe, I’ve always been an overachiever,” he says, voice nearly teasing, and Colin laughs, the sound rumbling and echoing in between Damian’s bones.

“You _are,”_ he giggles, shoulders shaking with something like hysteria but closer to humor, and that’s what Damian was aiming for, so he settles on the bench again and shuts his eyes, simply breathing in this horrible day as Colin shifts into a more comfortable position.

“Do you think we’ll ever find out where Spyral is,” he asks, and Colin peeks up at him, expression grim.

“Yeah. I have a good idea where it is, but it’s a long ways away, and most of the strong people are there. We might have to use what makes us gods to get Dick back,” he says, and his hand turns back, the color dripping onto the grass below and making it rot. “At this age, anything else would be suicide.”

“We wouldn’t really die,” Damian muses, and Colin nods, flipping onto his back.

“We wouldn’t,” he agrees without hesitation, “but you only came back into this body because of the Chaos Crystal and your family’s determination. Me? I wouldn’t be able to. And you won’t get a second chance.”

He’s being serious, and Damian believes him. Why wouldn’t he? Colin is Death, after all.

A thought occurs to him, and he cuts a glance at his friend.

“Why has Clark Kent come back so many times,” he asks, and Colin shrugs.

“His body is more resilient thanks to the sun, so it accepts his soul easier,” he says, and that doesn’t really answer Damin’s question.

“No, why have you let him come back?”

“Oh.” Colin blinks. “That’s easy. He asked me without begging.”

Damian open his mouth and then closes it. “That it,” he manages, and Colin nods happily.

“Yeah. Everyone else begs and screams and cries, but he got my attention and asked and gave his reason and that’s a hell of a lot nicer than everyone else, so I said yes. And he’s done this every time and every time I let him go. Nice system, huh,” he flashes a grin, and Damian hits him on the forehead.

“What will you do when his body won’t accept his soul anymore,” he challenges, and Colin sticks his tongue out while rubbing his head.

“I won’t let him. But when he asks he’s always within the time span. And if he tries to go back when he isn’t, or when he’s old, then I’ll just say no.”

Damian _cannot believe_ how big of an idiot Death is.

“This becomes habit,” he says incredulously, and Colin snorts. “It will, if it already isn’t! What did you say last time when he asked to come back? Did he even say his reason?”

“Um.”

“Exactly,” Damian says, slapping his friend on the stomach, and Colin yelps, bucking up and falling to the dirt. Damian ignores his words of protest and continues. “What will do you when he _can’t_ go back? Will you even look to see if he can?” Colin makes a sound of protest, still face down on the ground. “Sit up so I can understand you.”

“I _said_ that I check every time, since a soul going back to a body that won’t accept them is agonizing and likely to tear the soul apart,” Colin huffs, and crosses his legs, waving his arms around in an effort to make him understand, and that is not helping his case.

“Did you even _check_ last time?”

Colin falters, and that’s enough of an answer.

“You didn’t, did you.” Damian has to wonder how Colin’s survived this long with this little common sense. How is he not dead and incorporeal?

“I did _so!”_

“No, you _didn’t!”_

Colin lets out a noise of deep anger and launches himself at him, tar dropping from his skin and eyes and Damian snaps light around him, a warning and an apology, as they tumble to the Earth, kicking and snapping and things are dropping dead around them, the sky’s are gray and thundering and the stars are worrying above them.

“I’m not that _stupid,”_ Colin shouts above the crackle of electricity dancing above Damian’s skin, and his eyes have bled white, black on his veins, and Damian growls, twisting impossibly until Colin’s below him.

Damian bares his teeth at him, stars burning in his blood, and he _knows_ this is stupid, but they’re both so fucking _hateful,_ so full of rage _-_ _because they can’t seem to do anything that will change what needs to be changed -_ that they need to get it out of their systems, and what better way than at each other?

“I think you _are,”_ he says with his mouth set in a grin that shows his upbringing, the words a poison, and Colin makes a tree rot into dust with a twitch of his fingers, and then they’re back to fighting.

Gotham shakes and shudders and lightning flashes and rain makes it hard to move, but _they need to do something, they need to let_ **_go-_ **

It ends, as it always would, with Colin on his back and Damian’s foot on his stomach, green eyes lit with the sun and light burning the water away.

“Do you surrender,” he asks, and he’s barely louder than a mouse, but Colin nods, once, and then they both collapse.

“Feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Want to go change?”

“Let’s go.”

* * *

 

“Today is the day,” Roy says cheerfully, and claps him on the shoulder, and Jason _so wants to kill him._

“I know,” he growls, and Roy just laughs at him because he is truly an adult.

_Not._

“You are not backing out now, do you understand,” Kori says, authority ringing with every word, and Jason doesn’t look at her, doesn’t dare to as he grabs his helmet.

Kori takes it away, looking him over with her hands on her hips. Her lips curl. “You aren’t wearing that when you go meet your brother,” she tells him, and sends him to his room to change, Roy snickering as he trudges back.

 _Why_ he can’t wear his gear when he’s going to be fleeing to go on patrol after the conversation ends is beyond him, but he’s learned not to question Kori in these instances, so he goes and changes into black skinny jeans, a red t-shirt with the Robin symbol over his heart - he can _so_ be a supportive big brother and there’s the proof - and he keeps the boots.

Because he likes the boots.

Kori disagrees and throws a normal pair of shoes at him.

Jason switches shoes because he is not an idiot, and Kori’s eyes were flaring, and Roy was staring at him in some twisted form of pity. Damn his team.

(He loves them so much. He doesn’t want them to leave, but they will, one day. He’ll leave, or Kori will leave, or Roy will leave, and then they’ll be left alone without a home because for them _this_ is home. But it’ll end. Like it always does, like how it did with everyone else, like it happened with them, like it happened when the people they _loved_ and _trusted_ cast them aside and told them _go away-_

They can’t stop it, but they can try to delay it.)

“Can I go now,”  he asks past the ball of emotion in his throat, and Kori pushes his jacket into his hands, the line of her mouth soft, and she presses her lips to his forehead, brushing his hair out of his face.

“Yes,” she says, and Roy pulls him into a hug when he heads for the front door.

“Good luck,” he says softly, and Jason wraps his arms around his best friend and breathes in motor oil and singed hair and that manages to calm him down a bit.

“Thanks,” he says, and Roy tightens his grip.

“Just call if you need us, ‘kay?”

Jason laughs weakly. “You got it.”

Roy lets go but holds him by the shoulders, eyes flickering over his face. “Hope your reunion goes well.”

“Yeah,” and oh _shit_ why is he getting choked up - “Me too.”

And with that, Jason’s outside with a jacket in his hands, his team behind him, and Damian somewhere to be found.

Jason takes a deep breath, shrugs on the jacket, and goes to look for his brother.

* * *

It's not really a surprise that they end up going to Colin's room. Damian's left clothes there for this exact reason, and Colin just needs a shower.

Actually, they both do.

So into the shower Damian goes, scrubbing the dirt and mud off, Colin doing the same when it's his turn, and they both are soaking wet but they can't help flinging their towels at each other.

“So,” Damian says, and dodges a towel aimed for his face. “About earlier.”

Colin nudges his arm, already shaking his head. “It's fine. We both needed to let out some steam.”

Damian smiles in relief, resting his head on Colin's shoulder. “I still could have hurt you,” he mumbles, and Colin snorts.

“I would've gone all behemoth on you," he says, and he's not even joking, but Damian's been _trained_ to take down people of that size too, and he _could have._ That's what bothers him, what's eating away at his mind. Colin may be _Death_ but he's a civilian. Damian is a cosmic god that was raised by the al Ghuls with Bruce Wayne as a father and Talia as a mother.

Damian's never been a civilian.

“Still,” he says, because this is something Colin _needs_ to understand. “I could have hurt you irreparably.”

Colin ruffles his hair, ignoring the squawk of irritation, and says, “But you didn't, and that's what matters. Stop thinking of could haves.”

Damian huffs and stands, brushing off lint that doesn't exist off his shirt. “I have to go,” he says, because he wants to go home and pretend today _never happened._

He wants to go to his room and play his violin and draw and play with his pets and drink tea with Alfred and talk with Father. He wants to pretend that Dick is in Bludhaven and not gone, that Jason is out on semi-illegal adventures with his Outlaws instead of here and ignoring him, that Tim is just downstairs working on a case while surrounded by coffee cups and energy drinks.

He wants to pretend everything is _normal._ That everything is _fine_ and he'll get a call from Dick any day now, with his laughter ringing through the phone and _here._

He wants to pretend, for once.

Colin seems to understand, because he let's him go without a single word against him leaving, hair drying and the collar of his shirt wet, cheeks red from the hot water, and Damian stops just before he leaps out the window, squinting at a message Father sent him.

 _Yes,_ his screen says, and Damian's heart skips a beat.

“I've asked Father to let you come to Gotham Academy,” he says without looking back. “And he's agreed. So. You're coming to school with me.”

Colin's blank _what_ makes him grin, and then he's out the window and on his bike, still grinning from ear to ear.

“Damian Wayne, _you will explain yourself next time I see you!”_

 _Not likely,_ he thinks, and heads for home, at least ten over the speed limit, but he doesn't care. His _best friend_ is going to school with him.

There's nothing that could bring his mood down.

Except-

Except when he gets to the Batcave, Jason is there.

Damian closes his eyes and sighs.

Dammit.

* * *

Damian isn't anywhere. And this a problem, a major one, because Damian is the kind of kid to get into trouble when he's not being watched, and even then he'd sneak away anyways. Jason's going to get _more white hair from this kid._

“I swear to God, this child,” he grumbles as he throws his leg over his motorcycle again, gritting his teeth and glaring. The henchman that wander flinch. Jason's grudgingly pleased about that, and that's squashed by irritation because _where is he._

He's not at Wilkes’, not at the park, and not even at the goddamn _animal shelter. Any of them._

_Where is he?_

Jason groans and hangs his head, rubbing the back of his neck to try and get rid of the ache. He's hurting from a fight the other night, one where they got him alone and took turns with beating the hell out of him, and he'd gotten free five minutes before Kori burst through the door with the radiance and fury of a star, Roy not a moment behind with a new invention in his hands and a maniacal gleam behind his goggles.

Jason's dubbed this the mad-scientist-look and has learned to fear both it and whatever Roy has in has grasp, and wisely retreated to the shadows while his team beat the shit out of his attackers.

Jason had been right to fear it, because not even a minute later black liquid had been released, hardened within seconds, and froze everyone in their tracks, and Kori had set them on fire while Roy had taken him out of the warehouse - and, really, could they have not been more cliche? - and checked him over got injuries.

Yeah. He has the _best_ team.

But still no Damian…

Jason narrows his eyes and pulls out his phone. Alfred is maybe the only person in his family he can talk to without the urge to kill them in the back of his head, and he's, well, _Alfred,_ so Jason figures that if anyone can tell him where Damian is without Jason strangling the air on front of him, it's Alfred Pennyworth.

Alfred picks up on the first ring. _“Wayne Manor,”_ he says, as attentive as always, and Jason bites down a grin.

“Yes, is Damian in,” he asks, and he can physically feel Alfred's judgmental eyebrow raise.

 _“Hello, Master Jason,”_ he says dryly. _“How nice of you to call.”_

Jason shrugs and leans forward, resting his elbows in the metal and his chin on his hand. “Yeah, sorry I haven't called lately. Crazy things have been happening.”

 _“I’m sure,”_ Alfred drawls, and Jason winces, knowing his lie has been caught. He hasn't been doing anything really important recently.

“Sorry. Seriously, though, where's Damian, I can't find him anywhere.”

Alfred hums. _“He should be home shortly. Would you like to come over and wait?”_

Jason grins, starting up his bike. “Yeah, sure. See you in minutes.”

“Goodbye, Master Jason.” And with that, Jason's down the streets of Gotham, taking short cuts, because traffic is horrible right now. It's the dinner rush, and Jason has no intention of making Alfred wait more than the promised five minutes.

It just wouldn't be okay to make the man wait more, so he's at the Manor in four through the work of breaking many, many road laws.

Alfred would not be proud, but Jason doesn't quite care. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Alfred answers the door as soon as he reaches it, and from the way he looks at Jason's hair, he already knows.

Damn. How could he think he could hide things from him?

Jason smiles awkwardly as he's herded to the kitchen and given a tea cup and a lemon cake.

“So,” Alfred says as he takes a sip from his tea. “What are you going to discuss with Master Damian?”

Jason takes a bite to avoid answering and doesn't meet Alfred's eyes, because if he does then he'll break.

Like an egg.

“Master Jason.” The cup clicks as it's placed back on the saucer.

Jason flicks his eyes up, and-

“We knew each other when I was with Talia, but then I forgot him, and I remembered him when he was dead, and Kori's made me work up the courage to talk to him.” It leaves in a slightly jumbled, overly fast pace, but Alfred takes another sip of tea, and doesn't say anything. He just waits for more. “I'm so afraid it's not funny.”

“Ah.” Alfred smiles, eyes twinkling behind the rim of his cup. “You don't need to be. Master Damian adores you. Just keep your head about you and don't get angry, because that will make it escalate from a conversation to a shouting competition.”

Jason takes another bite and mulls that over.

It…makes sense.

Damian would get defensive if faced with anger, and that's something Jason desperately doesn't want. He expects this talk to crash and burn, but there's a chance it _won't,_ and _that's_ something Jason _wants._

“It looks like you're right, Alfred,” he says, and takes a drink of tea.

“I usually am, Master Jason.” With a smile, Alfred pours himself more tea and tilts his head. “And that's Master Damian right now. Go down to the Batcave, Master Jason, I will clean up myself.”

Jason's fully ready to object because he wants to help, but Alfred pushes him gently, and, well, that's that, so he heads downstairs, and comes to a stop just as Damian comes through, the screech of the tires suddenly halting in place echoing in Jason's ears.

Jason steps forward, hope unfurling in his chest carefully, and says, “Hi, Damian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE.
> 
> I CAN'T ESCAPE IT NOW.
> 
> IT'S HAPPENING. I PROMISE.
> 
> (Also any good Roy fics??? Roy's rapidly becoming someone I like very very much and I want more of this man.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a _long_ day, and Damian just can't deal with Jason; he doesn't have the emotional capacity right now to deal with Jason. His heart can't take the strain.
> 
> He doesn't think that he can take it, not anymore. He can't hold onto the hope that Jason will remember, will laugh and hold him close, and Damian-
> 
> Damian just can't. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my fucking god this chapter gave me _hell_ i hated it for months. i kept on starting it then deleting it until i finally got it and the colin came in out of nowhere and took up the majority of the chapter and i don't even care because if he didn't then i would still be stuck with a chapter at 100 words.
> 
> *bows to the mighty colin*
> 
> i will edit later

“Hey, Damian,” Jason says, and Damian takes a short breath, tugging off his helmet and not looking at his older brother.

The air freezes around him, the atoms almost stopping their vibrations as he shifts, setting his helmet on his bike, as though they're waiting. Damian runs a hand through his hair, more tired today than he's been in the last week.

“Damian,” Jason repeats, and the line of his mouth is soft, the look in his eyes is warm. Damian sighs, weary right down to the bones.

“What,” he says flatly, ice growing underneath his feet, and watches as Jason flinches back. A moment passes, then another, and Jason doesn't say anything. Damian rubs at his eyes, saying, “If you aren't going to say anything, I'm going to go to bed,” as he scratches his forehead.

It's been a _long_ day, and Damian just can't deal with Jason; he doesn't have the emotional capacity right now to deal with Jason. His heart can't take the strain.

He doesn't think that he can take it, not anymore. He can't hold onto the hope that Jason will remember, will laugh and hold him close, and Damian-

Damian just can't. Not anymore.

* * *

 Jason looks at Damian, _really_ looks at him, and he can hardly believe that this unsmiling boy is his baby brother. Damian always been filled with _fire,_ with the will to live, and the one in front of him just looks tired. He looks ready to drop, to fall, to close his eyes and never open them again, and Jason swallows painfully.

“We have to talk,” Jason says carefully, as though speaking to a minefield instead of his brother, and ignores the way his heart is screaming _what happened to you, what happened, tell me so I can fix it!_ He can’t fix much right now, and he knows it.

Damian glances at him with a wary eye, and Jason makes himself stand, to hold his ground instead of folding because Damian’s always valued strength, emotional or not. “About what,” Damian says, his voice still that dead and level tone that Jason is starting to _hate._

“About,” Jason says, and stops. He can’t-he has to figure out how to word this. “I remember.”

Damian blinks, a distraught look making his face crease in ways it never should at his age, before it clears. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jason makes a noise, takes a step towards his little brother, and Damian takes a step back, lips twisting into something bitter and afraid, and Jason hates that his baby brother has to wear that expression around him, hates that he has to be so cautious. “You know exactly what I mean,” Jason snaps, and Damian falters, hand coming up to grip his wrist in a move that is not entirely intentional so much as grounding.

An _SOS, please send help_ action, and Jason grits his teeth. Damian should never have to use to that with him, not ever.

“I really don’t,” Damian says, eyes wide, and the ground shakes below them.

 _Meta abilities,_ Jason thinks, and doesn’t curl his hands into fists. _What does he have control over?_

Maybe the way the park was destroyed was Damian’s fault too. It wasn’t obvious; in fact, if you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn't have found it, but Jason had been _looking._ And it was caught up in a natural disaster.

 _Not so much a natural disaster so much as an upset kid,_ Jason think with a wry smile, and Damian scowls at him. He doesn't let go of his wrist, doesn't so much as flick his gaze away from Jason's, but the way his eyes harden, ice making the green turn mint, feels like a punch to the gut, and Jason sucks in a desperate breath.

“If you aren't going to elaborate, though I doubt that you can with your tiny brain, I'm going up my room,” Damian declares with a sneer, and starts forward, footsteps a march that echoes in the cave.

Jason flings an arm out as Damian passes him, and Damian's so tiny that his head barely grazes Jason's sleeve. “What,” Damian snarls, looking up at him, and Jason only wraps arm around his middle, keeping him trapped and _here,_ because they need to have this conversation _today._ It took days for Jason to work up the nerve to have it, but he has never been a coward so he's doing it.

Doesn't make it any less hard, though.

“We are going to _talk_ about this,” Jason says as Damian kicks at his sides, yelling and snapping his teeth, and Jason bends over so his little brother can't escape. “Whether you like it or not.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Damian shouts, loud and aimless anger, and Jason grinds his teeth together.

“I remember you from the League,” he snarls, and Damian goes limp in his arms.

“I- _What?”_

Damian presses his face into Jason’s chest, his little shoulders shaking, and Jason curls his hand around the back of his baby brother’s head, the way he did when Damian was even smaller and had less sharp edges. All Jason feels is sorrow, all he can think of is a little boy who sat next to him and read him stories day after day, who came home covered in blood and sat next to him with a blank look in his eyes and a red monster behind him.

“I remember,” he whispers, and it’s a broken, murmur of a thing, and Damian clutches at his jacket, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry_ that I forgot. I’m sorry that I left, I’m so fucking _sorry.”_

Damian pushes back, wiping at his tears, and Jason reaches out, wanting to comfort, wanting to be the big brother he wasn’t, but Damian steps back. His chest is heaving, eyes wide with _rage,_ and Jason’s heart twists in his chest.

“You’re sorry,” Damian breathes, and the world shakes around them. “You're _sorry?”_ Damian spits the words back at him as though they’re poison, and Jason flinches. “You finally remember me, _finally_ remember the time we spent together becoming a _family,_ after you _left me?_ After I had to go through hell and abandonment and death and _almost losing my father_ you’re _sorry?”_

The last word is a scream, and a crack opens beneath Damian’s feet as his eyes glow. “You’re _sorry?”_ Damian’s repeats it as though it’s a cruel joke on him that he only just got. “I had to leave everything behind me and I went with it peacefully because you were here. I went with Father because I thought that you would be able to help. But you _didn’t remember.”_

Jason can’t breathe. Damian isn’t moving, isn’t growing, but his presence is getting bigger, getting _stronger,_ and it’s making it hard to move, to even _speak._ The air has gone heavy and the gravity has increased and all Jason wants to do is run over to his little brother and make him stop crying.

“I don’t know why,” Jason says, his tongue like lead, “I forgot. I don’t know why. All I know is that one day I woke up with no knowledge that you existed.”

Damian’s face twists, and his tears freeze in mid air, glittering salt water droplets, and he flicks a finger. The medical bed _that was nailed to the floor_ goes flying, and Jason realizes all at once that he doesn’t know the combination to his little brother anymore. It’s changed, it’s a completely different system, and Jason _can’t._

“I don’t _care!”_ Damian screams it as though it’s a declaration to the world, and his hands start to collect the light in the cave, the glow from the computer flying to his baby brother’s hands, and Jason closes his eyes. “I don’t care that someone messed with you, I don’t care, I don’t care, I _don’t_ **_care-”_ **

Little hands sprinkled with freckles grab Damian’s wrists, and Wilkes is there. His face is sad as he forces Damian’s hands down at his sides, and Jason blinks.

Where did he come from?

* * *

 Colin holds his creator’s wrists down and makes his friend - and how odd is that, to think of his creator as a friend - look him in the eyes.

“Damian,” he says, voice low and soothing, and Damian snarls at him, his tears floating up as they escape from his eyes, and Colin’s heart _aches._

He caused this. He caused this anger and hurt in a misguided attempt to protect the one who made him with the stars new around him, and Colin takes a deep breath through his mouth, then releases it. He does it again, slow and steady, saying, “Come on, breathe with me.” He learned this at the various foster homes - a necessity, really, considering the fact that _so many_ kids had panic attacks or anxiety attacks and Colin had really only been the stable one in many of his homes where he could do it reliably without freaking out himself. “Damian, focus on me.” Jason’s behind them, eyes wide, and Damian keeps on drifting back to him, something _furious_ and devastated in his eyes. Colin lets go of his wrists and pulls him into a hug, forcing Damian’s face into his chest as they sink to the ground.

“Damian,” he says again, and Damian trembles, his breath hitching. “You have to calm down.”

“I don’t want to,” Damian says, whisper soft, and Colin threads his fingers through black hair, resting his cheek on Damian’s head. “I don’t want to calm down. I just-”

“I know,” Colin says soothingly, and, _oh,_ how he does. When he was five he was placed in a foster home where the man had a taste for little kids, and one day he had woken up to find the man hovering over a girl’s bed, and Colin had flown out of bed, hitting him in the back, and that had caused everyone else to wake up. Colin had just kept _hitting_ him, hitting him until he was thrown off and even then he’d been screaming and screaming and he’d wanted to kill him. The police had gotten there first and Colin had _refused_ to calm down.

“You have to,” he says instead. “You have to.”

He’d killed him the end. He’d escaped from police custody and Colin had reached out and tore his soul to shreds. He’d been found two days later, and the diagnosis had been a heart attack.

“I can’t,” Damian says, small and so much unlike his creator that Colin pulls him closer. The Damian he knows is strong and smart and full of snark, and he knows that he isn’t like that all the time, but Damian being like this is so _wrong_ that Colin wants to kill anything that hurt him.

But that would mean killing himself.

“I know,” Colin says again, and Damian sucks in a desperate breath. “But you have to. I know you can’t but you have to.”

He breathes, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and slowly, ever so surely, Damian starts to breathe with him, matching the rhythm Colin sets, and Damian closes his eyes.

“I’m...tired,” Damian says quietly, and Colin hums, standing and transforming into the goliath form, carefully picking him up with one hand and cradling him against his chest.

“Let’s get you to bed then,” he says, voice gentle, and Damian gazes up at him with eyes that are unguarded and so confused and angry, and Colin smiles back with graveyard stone teeth, and Damian smiles back, small and wavering before settling down, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face in his legs.

Colin makes his way to the stairs, heart weighed down with regret, and Jason makes a noise, scrambling after him once he’s finally able to do anything more than watch, and Colin turns to face him.

“Jason,” he says mildly, and Jason’s face twists in a way that entirely familiar. Colin swallows a laugh because that’s the _exact_ face that Damian makes when he feels indignant and irritated by someone’s incompetence, but a smile lingers on the edges of his lips.

Jason’s small compared to how Colin is now, but the way he yanks out a gun and aims it at his head is practiced and dangerous as he stares him down. “Put. Him. Down,” Jason grinds out, and Colin blinks.

“Do you think I’ll hurt him,” he asks, a little offended at the very idea. As if he would, as if he _could._ What he did those years ago is inexcusable and he knows it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll _hurt_ Damian.

Jason growls, jerking forward, something tormented in the angle of his vicious snarl, and Colin takes a step back, curling a hand over Damian. “Put him down,” Jason repeats, heartache in his words, and Colin softens.

“I think he’s asleep,” he offers, and tilts his head with his eyes closed as he smiles. “If you want to carry him to his bed while I follow, I wouldn’t mind.”

Jason bristles but holds out his arms expectantly, eyes narrowed and nearly vibrating with tension as Colin gingerly slides Damian into his hold, and Jason clutches at him as though he’s the only thing that matters, and Colin feels something warm bloom in his chest, watching it.

 _Once Damian finds out,_ he thinks, a bit sadly as he shrinks down, _he’ll have someone with him._

That, at least, makes it easier to smile, if tremblingly.

Jason doesn’t wait for him, doesn’t care if he catches up as he walks past him, and Colin falls into step behind him, his flannel torn and his feet bare. He’d felt the Earth shaking and Damian’s very being - the parts of him that makes him the Creator, the parts of him that make him more than human - lighting up, and nearly fell out of his window in his hurry to get here, not even bothering to put shoes on.

The way Damian had been going, he’d bring down the manor with a move of his eyes, and Colin knows that Damian would be so angry at himself he did that, and he already has enough self-hatred, in Colin’s humble opinion.

Jason’s feet fall heavy on the marble floors, and in comparison the sound of Colin’s feet slapping against it is almost silent. Colin hums and stretches his arms above his head, Venom once again like mud, and grimaces as he scratches against a vein in his arm. He has a feeling that he might open up his arm soon just to get it _out._

Damian would hate that, Colin knows. He would rage and yell and would put blame on himself and not Colin, and that’s-

That’s something he would like to avoid. So he scratches instead.

Jason gives him a weird look, adjusting Damian so that his head is resting against his shoulder, and goes upstairs. Colin looks around, not finding anything new - Damian has taken him here a few times - but letting his eyes linger on the pictures of happier days.

(Most of them don’t include Damian, and Colin _hates_ the Wayne family with everything he has for half a heartbeat.

They brought Damian back and had nearly fallen apart in his absence. They care.)

Jason eases Damian’s door open, Titus sitting up immediately with Alfred yowling his discontent with that from Titus’ back, and Colin shushes them.

“Be quiet,” he hisses at them as Jason sets Damian down on the bed beside his pets. “Damian will hear you, and we _don’t_ want to wake him up!”

Titus and Alfred fall silent, leaning away from him, and Colin sighs at the sight of it. He’s death. It’s to be expected. Animals have a much stronger ability to tell that he’s something dangerous and act accordingly. He wishes he could pet a rabbit though.

Damian stirs, eyes flickering open, and Colin shoves Jason out of the way to crouch in front of his friend. “Hey, go back to sleep,” he murmurs, willing a smile, and Damian nods sleepily, turning over and pulling the blanket up to his chin as he curls up. Colin breathes a small sigh of relief and stands, brushing down his ripped jeans. “Lets leave him alone, huh,” he asks lightly, and breezes out the door.

Jason follows, and Colin can feel the way he’s staring. “So what’s your problem with me,” he asks casually, and to his credit Jason doesn’t falter.

“You’re close to my brother and you unnerve me,” Jason says without missing a beat, and Colin makes a low noise of amusement.

“I unnerve you?” He laughs and turns around, placing his hands on his hips the same way foster mother number four had done. “I’m only eleven, same as Damian.”

Jason gives him a narrow look, feet widening as he looks at Colin’s smile. “And Damian can kill a man with his _teeth,”_ he says flatly, and Colin’s smile widens.

“Ah, but I’m only a civilian,” he says, mild as milk, and leans forward. “I haven’t had any training. How could I hurt you?”  
  
He’s being creepy right now and he knows it. When he was nine he got told, very bluntly, that he was creepy when he acted like this, and that he should probably stop. Colin’s never been very good at picking up social cues - but he’s better than _Damian,_ so he counts it as a win - but he’d noticed that and repaired his behavior to meet society’s standards.

He still likes doing this though.

“And I think you’re a meta,” Jason counters, and leans against the wall beside a photo of a boy who is most likely Tim Drake grinning beside a blonde girl.

Colin considers it, then shakes his head. “I’m not a meta,” he says, completely confident and telling the truth. It’s not like a _meta_ could control death the way he does.

Jason barks a laughs at him, rough and mocking as he pushes himself off the wall and starts down the hallway again. “You keep telling yourself that kid,” he calls over his shoulder.

Colin puffs his cheeks out and glares at Jason’s retreating back. “I’m not a meta,” he says to himself, and starts home.

* * *

 Jason pulls out his phone the moment he’s not in Wilkes’ view, and he calls Roy a second after.

“So, how’d it go,” Roy asks before Jason can say anything.

Jason groans, running a hand down his face and pointedly saying nothing.

“...That bad, huh?”

“Yep,” Jason says, popping the p, and Roy makes a sound of sympathy.

“Sorry, dude. Want to come home and eat away our sorrows?”  
  
Jason snorts, warm just from the word home. He hasn’t had one in years, and yet he has one with Roy and Kori. “Yeah, sure. See you in a few minutes?”  
  
“I’ll order pizza right now,” Roy says, and hangs up.

Jason leans back to stare at the ceiling, wondering just what his life has come to.

He hopes that it’ll last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.
> 
> what did ya think???? was it satisfying??? was it good? did i live up to your expectations??
> 
> im slightly unhappy with this chapter but this is a big one so to speak - kinda anyays - so i would appreciate some feedback on it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reMEMBER THIS

Damian wakes up in his bed, sunlight drifting in through his window and Titus resting his head on his waist, staring at him with soulful eyes. "Hey," he says softly, a smile curling at his lips. "Good morning." Titus snuffs at his wrist, his nose wet against his skin.  
  
He yawns and stretches his arms above his head, scrubbing at his eyes tiredly. The clouds drift idly by, slurring greetings and the trees ruffle their leaves at him happily.   
  
It's a wonderful morning. As if to make up for what happened the night before.   
  
Damian's smile fades at that.   
  
He had nearly brought the manor down in his rage, in that mist of emotion. He's nearly killed Jason.   
  
His heart twists and he bends over, clutching at his stomach. He's the universe incarnate, has killed world with life on it simply because he wanted to, and the mere thought of killing Jason, his big brother, is so sickening that bile rises in his throat. His throat burns and tears come to his eyes.   
  
He's horrified, he realizes numbly. This is horror sitting heavy in his gut. It's well deserved. He didn't think, didn't even wonder about what would happen should he lose his temper, and -   
  
And he had nearly brought his home down to his feet because he didn't _think,_ despite the training beat into him, despite the knowledge earned through blood and scars and silent tears of pain. He didn’t think, and he nearly destroyed the life he had built.   
  
God, how stupid could he _be?_   
  
Titus makes a sound at him, wiggling until he's in his lap, and Damian smiles fondly, if a bit sadly, at him. "You're a good dog, you know that," he asks, and Titus snorts at him.   
  
"Yes, yes," he laughs, turning so he could stand. "I'm an idiot human, what should you do with me."   
  
Titus' tail wags as he woofs. _You silly human,_ he seems to say, and only Titus would say that.   
  
"I know," he says, turning towards his dresser to get clothes. "I know I'm silly."   
  
Titus leaps up from the bed and to his side. At least you know, he seems to sniff, before he's walking out the door. Damian laughs after him, that stone still heavy in his stomach, and his smile fades like smoke.

He's still furious with him himself, with Jason, with everyone, really, but -  
  
But school is starting within a week. Colin is going to school with him. That's enough of a reason to force a smile   
  
So he does, reaching for a light blue shirt, shrugging it on and buttoning it up as he thinks on what Colin will need. Distraction tactics, yes, but _useful_ distraction tactics. He's helping someone.   
  
So Colin will need notebooks, the textbooks if Father hadn't already bought them, a book bag, new clothes, and perhaps -   
  
Damian falters, hand drifting towards his neck. He once had a necklace hanging there, a declaration of his mother's love. He rarely wore it, saw it as a weakness that he found it so comforting. It broke the day he died, broke on the sword his clone wielded, provided by his mother.   
  
Perhaps a necklace.   
  
Damian bites his lip nervously  as he slips out of his bedroom, padding silently to the kitchen. Alfred is out, the dirt told him, so he has to make food for himself. He's a decent cook, able to make most foods, but complicated things escape him. Baking is much easier, to him. There's precise quantities, instructions. It's a comfort, truly.   
  
He pulls out some eggs, a tomato, and cheese, grabbing the mayonnaise as an afterthought. He turns on the stove, standing on his tiptoes to reach it, and grabs a stool so he could cut the tomato and block of cheese. He grabs a small pan and sets it on the stove, cracking an egg onto the surface after he sprays it with cooking spray. It sizzles instantly and he puts two pieces of bread into the toaster, snatching a spatula so he could poke at the whites to make sure they weren't sticking to the pan.

A ping and his toast pops pit. Damian turns and grabs it, spreading mayonnaise on one and placing the slices cheese and tomato on it before flipping over the egg, careful not to crack the yolk. Another thirty seconds and he slips the egg to his toast, pressing the other piece of toast close.  
  
And his food is done.   
  
Cooking without guessing is methodical. Easy. It's enjoyable. Much better than trying to cook meat over a fire in the mountains.   
  
He places his plate on the table and gets a cup of milk.   
  
He learned how to make an egg sandwich from Jason, when they actually had the ingredients to do it. He always made it as a congrats and special meal, despite the fact that it's a breakfast food. It was the only food that Damian would eat, even when he didn't want to. Jason went through the trouble of making this, he would think, and would eat.   
  
Jason always made the eggs 'drippy' as he called them, so Damian makes them the same way. He learned from watching with wide eyes at his brother's elbows, taking in the process.   
  
He's thinking about Jason again. Damian sighs, leaning back in his seat and staring at his egg sandwich. The thought of eating it makes his stomach turn. He swallows past the lump in his throat and gets up to put in Titus' food bowl, putting the plate and pan in the sink.   
  
Maybe he can eat with Colin. Judging by the sun it looks like it's about lunch, so they could eat before they go shopping.   
  
That - sounds like a good plan. Nodding firmly, Damian goes to get his shoes.

* * *

 

Colin's rummaging through his closet for that stache of money he's saved up so he can go get some school supplies when his window creaks open. Colin smiles and twists to face Damian, smiling faintly. "Hey," he says cheerfully, drifting over to place a hand on his friend's shoulder. "What's up?"  
  
"The sky," Damian offers, and Colin barks out a laugh, grinning as he runs a hand through his hair.   
  
"Got that from Dick, did you," he says playfully, and Damian nods, sitting lightly on the bed, fidgeting with his shirt. Colin's eyes narrow. Damian doesn't _fidget._ "What's wrong?" he asks sharply, and Damian flinches, frowning.   
  
"Nothing," he says. "I just - would you like to go shopping with me?"   
  
Colin stares at him, trying to figure out just what the hell is going on inside his head before slowly nodding. "Yeah, okay."   
  
"Good." Damian's nod is a bit too fast. "School's in a week, so I figured we could shop together."   
  
Colin makes a noise of understanding in the back of his throat. So that's what's going on. He wants to not think about what happened yesterday and is doing so by being productive, even it's not the kind of productive he really needs to be.   
  
"Sounds nice," he agrees. "But you do realize that you'll need to talk to Jason, right? Last night is an example why you can't avoid your problems."   
  
Damian scowls at him, thunderous as a storm. "I'm well aware, thank you," he snaps. "I just don't want to face him right _now."_

"I know," Colin says soothingly, reaching for his sneakers. "I'm just saying."  
  
Damian huffs, flicking a finger at him. "Well, don't. I'm not a coward."   
  
_No, you're not,_ Colin thinks as he ties up his laces, _but you're clueless about emotions. That's your problem._   
  
"I know," Colin repeats, standing. "We gonna go shopping or what?" He reaches for the small pile of cash, stashing it in the front pocket of his worn sweatshirt.   
  
"You're not paying," Damian says firmly, dragging him by his wrist to the window. "I have more than enough money to for the both of us combined twice over."   
  
"Damian, I would like to pay for my own stuff," Colin says diplomatically as he drops from his window to the tree, climbing down and swinging a leg over the bike. Damian frowns at him.   
  
"I can and will pay for you. You can pay for lunch."   
  
"Have you not eaten?"   
  
"No." Damian shifts on the seat, and Colin doesn't need to see his face to know that he's grimacing. "But that's one reason why I came over here."   
  
"Beyond the facts that your thoughts were traveling down dark paths," Colin teases over the rumble of the bike starting, "Mr. Robin."   
  
Damian growls at him, not even bothering to respond as he turns the corner. Colin laughs into his ear and clings as his creator serves through traffic, muttering curses about all the while.

Their first stop is at a Target. Damian isn't sure, exactly, what a person is supposed to do when shopping for school supplies, so he lets Colin tell him where to go. So when Colin muses aloud, "We should probably go to Target," Damian goes to Target.  
  
"So," Damian says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, "where do we go?"   
  
Colin grins at him, grabs his arm, and starts to walk to the left. "There's signs, dummy," he says gleefully, and stops at an aisle of book bags. Damian blinks at them, the stone the building is made of rumbling beneath his feet. "Which one do you want?" Colin grabs a bright red bookbag, holding it out. "This one?"   
  
The color is too close to blood. "No," Damian says blankly.   
  
Colin nods and puts it back, another one catching his eye. "What about this one," he asks, holding it out. A checkerboard green and white pattern with a chess piece hanging from it. It's the king.   
  
Damian likes it instantly. "That's acceptable," he agrees, and tried not to notice the way Colin grins at him, entirely unsurprised. This is a shopping expedition for the both of them. "Get yours."   
  
Colin shrugs and grabs a dark blue one with a pair of gray wings stitched onto it. "Okay," he says brightly, "onto folders!"

"Next aisle," Damian asks, and Colin nods, turning the corner with Damian keeping pace. "What colors do you want?"  
  
He hums. "I don't care really. As long as I have enough room and stuff in it."   
  
Damian rolls his eyes and looks at his phone. "We need seven folders each."   
  
Colin nods and grabs seven of differing colors, then notebooks the same colors. Damian shrugs and does the same.   
  
Blue, red, green, yellow, purple, orange, and a light gray. Rainbow colors. Ha.   
  
"Pencils, pens, coloring pencils," Colin thinks out loud, and Damian yawns, slouching as he trails after his friend. "After that we can go get some clothes. I think I need a new jacket. All my old ones are getting shredded by going goliath."   
  
Damian gives him an exhausted look. "Just get clothes that are too big for you," he drawls, and Colin sighs.   
  
"I want clothes that fit me," he says idly, grabbing two packages of mechanical pencils. "Besides, I don't want to seem like All Might."   
  
Damian tilts his head. "All Might?"   
  
Colin laughs at him as he picks up two boxes of colored pencils. "Yeah, it's from a thing I read. He has a second form like me that's huge, so he wears oversized clothes all the time."   
  
"You're a dork," Damian tells him, not kindly, and speeds past him to get pens. "And we aren't shopping for clothes here."   
  
"Whatever. I'm hungry so let's hurry."   
  
"Yes, _Death."_   
  
"Shut up!"   
  
"Never," Damian says, mild as milk, and throws two packages of pens into the basket hanging off his arm. "Lets go."   
  
"There are clothes," Colin tells him, faintly exasperated as he waves his arms to his left. Damian looks past him and there are clothes. "I can get clothes here and we won't have to go to another store. Besides, Gotham Academy has a uniform."   
  
"No," Damian says shortly, and goes to the register. "We are getting you clothes that will grow or shrink with you. There is fabric that can do that. Father has colleagues with it."

Colin groans, the metal around him turning a light brown as he stomps after his creator. "Damian, let me buy stuff the way I'm used to," he hisses. "I've been buying clothes from Walmart and thrift stores, I can handle Target clothes."  
  
"And _I,"_ Damian returns, still infuriatingly stubborn as he pays, "will not let you wear them when I know full well that you'll just wear them out in a month or two." He sends Colin a look. "Right?"   
  
"So my clothes rip sometimes, so what," Colin grouses. Damian sighs, as though _Colin_ is the one being difficult.   
  
"It means that you need clothes that you won't accidentally rip," he says, prim. He grabs the bag and heads for the door. "I'll get some of the fabric. Won't take long, considering the fact that Father is, well, _Father."_   
  
"Damian Wayne!"   
  
Damian blinks, turning to face his friend, plastic brushing up against his legs. "Yes?"   
  
Colin smiles, a little sad, and puts his hands on his shoulders. "I get that you're trying to help me. I get that you're trying to be a good friend. But you have to understand that sometimes I need to do stuff on my own. I've been doing this since I was five in his body. I know what I'm doing." He gives his creator a gentle shake. "Okay?"

"I have the ability to help," Damian insists, the bags rustling. "And not in the - the fighting way. I can help you keep your money in a world that you _need_ money to survive." A frown tugs at his lips. "Jason told me about not having money, about stealing things just so he and his mother could survive. I don't want you to go through that."   
  
Colin thinks back on the days spent rationing food, of going without meals so the younger ones wouldn't have to go hungry, of pickpocketing so he had enough money to buy new clothes, of using his powers to make metal rust underneath his feet. He already has gone through that. It's a consequence of being a orphan in the foster system in Gotham. Everything is against you, no matter how much the adults try to help. But Damian is staring at him with earnest eyes, frustration in the line of his mouth, helplessness in the way he's positioning his body, and he finds he can't say the truth, can't say that Damian can't do much to help.   
  
"I know," he says instead, running a hand through his hair. It's the same color as his mother's, and sometimes he closes his eyes and thinks back on the moments of clarity he saw her, hair a fire shroud around her head and her smile gentle. She had been so full of life, then, even as it drained out of her because of him. "I know," he repeats. "But still. Let me do it. If you want to help, just - be here."   
  
Damian's eyes narrow, calculating, and his grip tightens on the bags. "Okay. Where do you want to eat?" It's an obvious subject changer, and he's clearly planning something, but Colin let's it slide, shrugging. His creator has a heart ten sizes too big and power a million times too powerful for his body. It's not surprising he wants to help. In this case, though, Colin can't accept it.   
  
"I don't know," he says, humming under his breath. The flowers start to wilt as he passes by. "Where do you want to go?"   
  
"That's why I was asking you." Damian clicks his tongue. "Stupid. Let's just go to -"   
  
"Red Robin?" Colin interrupts, watching in amusement as his creator's face twists as though he'd just swallowed a lemon.   
  
_"No,"_ he hisses. "Drake already complains about that enough. I never want to step foot in it."   
  
"Too bad!" Colin laughs wickedly as he snatches Damian's hand and drags him into a Red Robin placed conveniently on the corner. "We're going there anyway!"   
  
"I despise you," Damian tells him seriously. "I truly regret creating you."   
  
"No, you dont," Colin corrects idly, looking over the menu.   
  
"I do."   
  
"Nope." Colin pops the p. "Never did and you never will." He sends a comforting smile over his shoulder. "It's okay, your secret is safe with me."   
  
Damian glares and smacks him with a plastic bag. Colin snorts and takes it in stride.

* * *

After they finish eating, Colin with a fresh red mark on his arm after teasing Damian with a shit eating grin he most definitely learned from a foster parent in the past.

"You didn't have to hit me," he grumbles as they step into the sunlight. "Seriously, you're a crime fighter. I'm a civilian. So violent. You're supposed to protect me."   
  
Damian breezily ignores him, stuffing the things they bought into the messenger bag Colin had grabbed on the way out of the orphanage. "If you weren't such a smart ass, I wouldn't have smacked you."   
  
"I learned it from you," Colin grouses, eyeing a cat walking around the corner. He crouches, reaching out a hand cautiously. Animals have never liked him. They're generally more perceptive than humans, more aware of the force of nature in their midst, but he _hopes -_   
  
The cat slowly walks towards him, tail curling into the air behind her, and Colin tentatively scratches her head. She purrs, reaching up and bumping her nose against his palm. Colin temporarily loses all ability to breath as he sits down, running a hand down her back.   
  
"Such a pretty kitty," he says softly, repeating the things he's heard other people coo. "Such a pretty kitty." She climbs into his lap as if to agree, rubbing the top of her head against his chin.   
  
Colin might cry.

Soft laughter makes him look up, and Damian stares down at him fondly, leaning against his bike. "Having fun?"  
  
_"Yes,"_ Colin says reverently, giggling when the cat meows in discontent after he stops petting her.

Damian smiles, and it's not like one of his usual ones. This one is small and kind and Colin finds himself looking away from it, flustered. Damian is fire and anger and a deep, aching loneliness that threatens to swallow him whole sometimes. Damian is stars exploding, planets forming, atoms coming together in a flash of heat. He is a walking contradiction. And yet, as his creator kneels and starts to gently ruffle the fur behind her ears, Colin finds that he doesn't want to puzzle him out, to put the pieces of him together. He simply wants to let him be, to exist and breath and _feel._   
  
"I'm naming her Ann," Colin decides. "I'm sure the matron won't mind."   
  
"I'm sure she won't," Damian agrees, and stands. "Let's get you and her home. We can shop for clothes later."   
  
Colin smiles as he carefully gets to his feet, Ann blinking up at him. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff fluff fluff. Bittersweet fluff.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason wakes up with a burning need for a cigarette and Roy passed out on his arm, grease on his cheek and hair a wild mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two finals today god help me.
> 
> Buuut today is the one year anniversary of cosmos!!! Happy anniversary!!! My writing has grown so much with this fic and you've all been here to see it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Jason wakes up with a burning need for a cigarette and Roy passed out on his arm, grease on his cheek and hair a wild mess. He smiles softly, reaching out to brush some hair away from Roy’s eyes. Last night had been filled with bad movies, greasy pizza, and a solid avoidance of what happened hours earlier. It was amazing, and Jason loved every second of it, loved when Roy laughed, bright and full and without a hint of tears.

He just - he loves his friends, loves Roy with an intensity that scares him. The Lazarus Pit makes emotions more intense, more consuming, and Jason is no exception to the rule. He has a feeling that, eventually, this friendship will turn to more if he lets it. He thinks that is why Ra’s is so passionate about the planet, why Talia is so desperate for Damian. Obsession and previous feelings are heightened, strengthened, and ones born after are even moreso.

He breathes in deep through his nose, smelling motor oil and smoke - the normal scents on Roy. He’s an inventor, a genius, and he creates without thinking about it sometimes. Before the alcohol, before the drugs, before Oliver fucking Queen took him in and made him not so okay, Roy would have been able to take the world by storm. He would have been like Lewis Robinson, making the world that much better with his mind. Before his life went to shit and his self worth took a bomb to the face, Roy was amazing.

Roy snuffles, scooting closer, and Jason hides a smile. He’s already perfect the way he is, though. Without Roy, Jason would still be filled with fury, with rage and a killer instinct. Without Roy, Jason wouldn’t really be here. Roy is his rock, his home, and Jason doesn’t know what he would do without him.

Roy could have been amazing, could have been blinding with his intelligence and be making the world a better place, but -

But Roy is here, with him. He’s like the sun, shining to brightly that Jason has to look away sometimes, but he never regrets anything that lead him to Roy’s side.

He only wishes he could put a bullet to Queen’s face. That would make everything better. Roy is so fucked up because of him that it would only be _fair._ And Jason is all about fair.

Roy stirs, nose wrinkling and freckles forming into one as he yawns, and Jason grins, a little fond, a little loving, and wraps his arm around Roy’s shoulders, pulling him into Jason’s chest. He wishes he could protect Roy from the world, hide him away from all the evil and the darkness and the manipulation and anything that could wish to hurt him. Someone always wants Roy to be hurt, to be crying, and Jason _hates_ it, hates how Roy is so accepting of it. Roy is awesome. He’s like a star - so full of brilliance that people fear it.

Jason doesn’t fear him. To him, Roy is his friend - his _best_ friend - and a person who deserves the whole fucking universe handed to him gift wrapped and with a bow on top.

“Jaybird?”

Jason automatically loosens his grip, looking down. “Yeah?”

“Want breakfast?”

Roy’s cooking leaves much to be desired - he’s good, but he gets distracted by his racing thoughts far too often for him to be reliable at it, and most of the time it ends up burned and Roy stammering apologies. Jason is great it at, if only because Alfred taught him a lot before he died. Besides, Roy gets hungry a lot - he jokes it's because his brain takes up too much calories - but Jason thinks that he has a really fast metabolism. For a human anyway.

“You’re hair is gross,” he says, and tugs at red hair. “Go take a shower. I’ll cook.”

“But,” Roy says, starting to protest, and _why_ does Roy think that he needs to take the whole world’s burdens on his back?

“You paid for dinner last night,” Jason says without letting him continue. “Go get clean. Breakfast will be ready when you get out.”

Roy sighs but nods, getting up and stretching until his back pops. “I’m getting old,” he complains, and Jason hums, eyes lingering on the muscles in Roy’s back.

“If you’re old, then Bruce is ancient,” he says. “And since he has a eleven year old kid, I think that he’s old enough anyway. You’re like twenty years younger than him, anyway.” He pokes Roy’s leg with his foot. “I think you’re good. You just spend a lot of time hunched over your worktop.”

“Without that worktop, your guns would be shitty,” Roy says, and it’s not a threat. It’s fact.

“I know,” Jason says, running a hand through his hair and kicking the blanket away. “Which is why you need to take care of yourself. Go take a shower.”

“Okay, okay,” Roy laughs, retreating, and a moment later Jason hears the distinctive sound of the shower nozzle starting up. He gets to his feet, trotting over to the duffle bag by the door and roots through it for a shirt, saying a soft yes when he finds a red one.

He pulls it on, thinking over what to make for breakfast. Kori is gone for the week - as she does - so he only need to make enough food for himself and Roy's prodigious appetite. French toast, he decides as he turns the light for the kitchen on, is the way to go. It's easy and quick and he should have it done when Roy gets out.

He takes forever. Like, twenty minutes. That's more than enough time to make french toast, even if he does have to run to the little corner store to get some bread and cinnamon. And maybe some eggs.

He may have to get everything.

He grimaces, not really wanting to go outside. He wants to stay here in this tiny apartment with Roy and not think about anything.

He opened the fridge and - yep, no eggs. Great.

“Alright, what's the bread situation,” he mutters, and searches for the bread. He finds none. He does find a little sticky note, clearly written by Roy - it's the oil smudges - that says _tell Jason we need bread hidden_  by a plate. He sighs but mentally marks it down. They're good on milk and cinnamon, surprisingly enough, but between all three of them they go through it like water, so.

He pulls on a jacket, takes it off at the last second, stuffs his feet into some shoes he finds, and walks out the door. He thinks they may be Roy's shoes. They have the arrow design he likes.

Jason wonders, a little absently as he goes down the stairs and into the streets of Gotham, when they became so domestic. He thinks it may have been when Roy woke him up after that fifth mission, exhausted and frightened but still smiling so bravely, and holding out

The bell for the door rings as he goes into the corner store, stuffing his hands into his sweatpant pockets as he shuffles towards the milk aisle. He's been here before - the apartment they're staying at is one of their more frequented safe houses - so he knows where everything is. He grabs the two percent milk he knows Roy likes, then the white bread _he_ likes, and brings them along with a dozen eggs up to the register, rustling through his pockets for a ten dollar bill.

The cashier looks tired, her hair thrown into a  messy ponytail and her eyes half closed as she scans his items, saying a, “That’ll be six dollars, please,” with a dead voice, and takes his bill without any fanfare. It’s about ten in the morning, so he’s assuming she’s the night shift waiting for her extremely late colleague. “Thank you for coming.”

He gives her a little salute and heads back to the safehouse, humming a little under his breath. Roy should be struggling to get the dirt out from under his fingernails right about now, and that takes about eight minutes before he gives up and starts scrubbing at his hands with a viciousness he saves for them only. That gives him enough time to make the french toast. Good.

He sets the bread down on the counter and gets out a bowl, cracking five eggs and sprinkling in a little cinnamon, whisking them until combined, one hand putting the pan he’d pulled out earlier on of of the burners and turning the stove on. Opening the plastic bag, he drips one piece of bread into the eggs and then puts it on the pan.

Rise and repeat.

Cooking is calming. It’s repetitive and he can put a new ingredient in if he wants to change something up. He once made soup for Damian when he was sick. He’d been forced to work his body past its limits and he’d fallen down with a fever, throwing up whatever food he managed to eat within an hour. Ra’s had no sympathy for his grandson’s plight and ordered him to get in peak physical condition as soon as possible. Damian had nodded, his face green, and hid his face in Jason’s neck when they left the rooming, his burning forehead pressed up against his skin. Jason, in a bid of helplessness, had made the soup Alfred used to make him and Bruce when they were sick.

Damian had thrown that up too.

Jason frowns, flipping a piece of bread. This is precisely what he was trying to _avoid_ thinking about. Damian and his powers and the way they may have manifested.

“Jason, you used up almost all the bread,” Roy says at his shoulder, and Jason jumps, putting down his spatula guiltily. “You usually aren’t so absent minded when you cook.” He takes the plate piled high with french toast to the table. “Is this about Daman?’

Jason flinches, unable to stop it. Roy sighs, filling two cups with milk. “Jason, you know that I’m here if you want to talk about it, right? So why don't we talk about it over breakfast? I know that something about him is bothering you and it’s not just his reaction last night.”

Sometimes, Jason thinks, Roy is too perceptive.

“Don’t try to lie to me about this.” Roy gives him a look. “I can spot your lies.”

“I know.” Jason sighs, sitting down across from him. “It’s just - I didn’t tell you this, but he has powers.”

Roy blinks, stopping in picking up the maple syrup. “What?’

“Yeah, that was my reaction,” Jason says, and grabs the syrup from his fingers. “Damian has powers that involve light, gravity. Even the air. Do you remember passing over that big crater in the woods?”

“Yes,” Roy says, giving him an odd look. “What’s so important about it?”

“I think that was Damian.” Jason takes a bite of french toast. “Last night he made ice grow beneath his feet, the light from the computer went to his hands, and the ground literally shook.”

“Woah,” Roy breathes. He looks excited, Jason realizes, and sends his teammate a stern look. “What? I was just thinking of what weapons I could give him to help control them. It sounds like they become harder to control the stronger his emotions are. When did that crater appear?”

“Uh, I can look it up,” Jason says, and does just that, typing in the question.

“It was about last March, right?” Roy asks, not even waiting for the answer. “When Dick left the Batman role.”

“I mean, maybe.” His phone finishes loading, and he checks it. “Yeah, last march?”

“Is there a video?” Roy says, looking far, far too knowing. “There is one, right?”

“I - yeah.” Jason clicks on it, turning it so they both can watch it.”

 _“Jack, you’re so stupid,”_  laughs a voice, and man stick sticks his tongue out at the camera.

 _“Shut up,”_ he says, playful, and then there’s a - boom. Light spills from the trees, shortening the camera out, and there’s a shriek - of pain, of distress, Jason doesn’t know - before  the video comes back, spotty at best. _“Erica, Erica are you okay?”_

A cough. _“Yeah, I’m okay. Just what the hell was that?”_

Jack’s eyes are wide, the line of his mouth grim.   _“I don’t know. But I don’t particularly want to find out. Leave that shit for the heroes. Let’s go.”_

There’s a screaming in the background, high pitched and full of grief and anger in equal measure, and Jason jolts because _he knows that voice -_

And the camera jerks towards where it came from. _“Jack, I think someone’s in trouble.”_

 _“I’ve seen someone get gutted because they were trying to help, I’m_ **_not_ ** _-”_

Another boom, another burst of light, and the camera falls to the ground again -

And the video stops. Jason pockets his phone, staring at the syrup on his plate. “Jason?”

“That was Damian’s scream,” he says, feeling numb. “That was _Damian’s scream.”_

Roy reaches out, breakfast forgotten. “Jason, it’s okay. That was a year ago. Besides, he’s here now.”

“Roy, I didn’t remember him then.” Jason turns horrified eyes onto his friend. “He went through that _alone.”_

 _God,_ he’s such a horrible brother. First he leaves and lets Damian get beat black and blue by the League of Assassins. Then he forgets him. And finally he wasn’t there when he went through something truly shaking.

Before this, Jason doesn’t think his emotions ever got the better of him to that extent, not like what happened in the cave. Before this, he thought -

Well. He doesn’t know what he thought. He knows that his brother isn’t emotionless, isn’t the killing machine Talia tried to make him. He knows this, knows just how emotional he is, so _why_ did he think that he never think that he had outbursts like this before? Why -

“Jason, I can make something that can help control his powers,” Roy says, breaking Jason out of the endless spiral of his thoughts. “His outbursts are dangerous and can hurt people. Besides, I doubt that he has the emotional strength to correctly handle them if they do get harder and more powerful the more his emotions get stronger. Besides, he’s spent most of his life pushing his feelings _back.”_

Jason chuckles drily, raising his eyes to meet Roy’s. “That he has,” he says, thinking back on how many times he stumbled onto Damian attempting his dry his tears to no avail. “That he has. And - would you?”

Roy grins, impish and mischievous, poking himself in the chest with his thumb. “Damn right I will,” he says cheerfully, and Jason tries not to collapse onto his syrup out of relief. With Roy on it, a way to control the output of Damian’s abilities is practically guaranteed, bar a few tests. “I just need to know just what the hell his powers do and how they work. Then I can figure something out.”

Jason smiles back, a bit weak, and picks up some french toast. It’s gone soggy, and he wrinkles his nose and drops it. “Want some cheeseburgers or something?”

“Nah,” Roy says around a mouthful of food. “I’m good. Are you gonna eat yours?”

Jason looks at his. “Nope,” he says, gently pushing the plate over to him. “Go ahead.”

Roy cheers, snagging the french toast with his fork and chewing on them with obvious pleasure. Jason leans his chin on his palm, watching him eat.

Roy might not realize it, but whenever he’s eating, happy and full, Jason feels nothing but relief. Roy eats like there’s no tomorrow, like he’s not sure if there will be food the next day, and watching him eat is such a delight.

Jason doesn’t know where he learned the behavior from -- he certainly recognizes it since he himself used to have it - but he has a strong feeling it comes from Oliver Queen, professional life ruiner.

And there’s his urge to slice the man’s throat. Can’t go a day without it, it seems.

Jason sighs once, softly, and wants to rubs his thumb over Roy’s knuckle to assure his friend that yes, he is here. That, _yes,_ Jason isn’t going anywhere, not if he can’t help it.

For now, though, he busies himself with thoughts about his little brother and ways he can help.

* * *

Ann, as it turns out, greatly despises motorcycle riding. Damian hides a wince as her claws dig into his shoulders from the bookbag, her yowling clearly heard above the wind.

Colin tightens his hold around his waist, looking up at the cat anxiously. “Damian?” he shouts. “Is she really okay?”

“Yes,” Damian yells back, “she’s fine! I have her in a bag, zipped up, with her being able to breathe! She just hates being on a motorcycle!”

The planet rumbles beneath him, scolding him for bringing a cat on a bike. He sends the ground an vexed look, sending a gentle shock towards the core. “I am well aware, thank you,” he mutters, irritated, and takes a sharp turn, more than eager to get Ann’s claws out of his back. The planet grumbles back, sending a rock flying at his face. Damian is less than impressed and sends another shock, this time less gentle. The planet subsides.

“That’s what I thought,” Damian says triumphantly as they roll to a stop and Colin quickly takes Ann out of the bag, hugging her to his chest and running a hand down her spine to try and calm her down. Ann’s tail is fluffed out in her agitation, her claws out and tearing at Colin’s skin, but Colin doesn’t hiss, doesn’t yelp. Perhaps he loves this cat that much, but Damian doesn’t think that’s it. Maybe it’s his natural pessimism, but he knows just how the foster care in Gotham is. He thinks that Colin got put with one too many bad parents, bad homes, and now his pain tolerance is just that high.

That and the Venom injections. From the little Colin has told him, it hurt like nothing else. Fire in his veins, Colin had said with a shudder, rubbing at his arm. Fire and stars when it finally activated. Forest fire to supernova.

 _Pure agony,_ Colin had said, his face going slack. _I don’t regret what I did, but -_

Damian grits his teeth. It’s over now. Crane is dead, past dead, his soul mere energy.

The clouds tell him he’s being stupid in their annoyingly high pitched voices. Damian tells them to shut up.

“Did you say something?” Colin asks absently, scratching Ann on the bottom of her chin.

Damian gives him a tense smile, shrugging. “No,” he says, and gives the sky a glare. They laugh at him, the impudent brats, and he resists to stick his tongue out at them. They can not win.

Colin squints at him for a long moment. “I don’t believe you,” he says finally, and hoists the cat onto her shoulder. Ann glares at Damian but stays regardless.

It seems that Colin has found the one animal that can handle his aura of death.

“I was just telling the clouds to shut up,” he says, and Colin frowns at him severely.

“So what are we going to do about Dick?” he asks, and Damian freezes at the mention of his name. “Come one, you can’t tell me you don’t have _some_ kind of plan.”

Damian sends him the evil eye over his shoulder. “I do, but here is not the place.”

“So dramatic,” Colin scoffs to Ann, who licks his cheek. ‘I swear, it’s like he’s genetically predisposed to drama.”

“I can hear you,” Damuan says loudly, turning to face him, and Colin give him the biggest, brightest grin he could possibly give him.

“I’m well aware!” he says.

Damian closes his eyes, as if in pain. “Who taught you sass?”

“You did,” Colin says nonchalantly, walking past him to the tree that leads to his room. “So are we going to discuss this or not?”

Damian nearly smiles at his bluntness. “Yes, yes,” he says, and settles on the ground beside the boy, crossing his arms and lifting a knee ever so slightly. “I’m thinking of a full frontal assault.”

Colin’s eyes widen and he drops down to sit next to him, Ann growling at the sudden movement. He waves her off, face pale. “With - with our powers?” he asks, nearly breathless.

It has been a while since he used his powers on purpose, Damian recalls, and smirks. “Indeed,” he says, and watches as Colin’s face lights up. “Of course, we’ll have to take care to hide our identities.”

“Right,” Colin says, nodding. “And? What’s the extent we can use them?”

Damian runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe twenty percent,” he says, uncertain. “Maybe twenty-five. It all depends on the amount of danger we find ourselves in.”

“Of course.” Colin waves a hand as if to dismiss the notion of them being in danger, which, admittedly, is low if they are going to be using their powers. Damian could make the very ground beneath their enemies feet turn against them with only the slightest effort, and Colin would rip their souls from their bodies with a slight flex of his powers.

They both fall silent, Colin petting Ann with the air of someone told excellent news, and Damian slowly, gradually, leans until his head is against Colin’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

Time marches forward around him, a never ending drill, and Earth churns below him in a never ending rotation. Colin is beside him, nearly humming as Ann curls up in his lap.

He smiles.

“When will we be attacking?” Colin asks, quiet, and Damian doesn’t open his eyes.

“Next month,” he says. “As soon as we find their base and bring it to the ground.”

He can feel Colin’s razor grin. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please wish me luck on my finals I didn't study last night and instead wrote ha...ha)
> 
> Also Oliver Queen is horrible at being a dad and I will fight you if you say otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always loved and brighten up my day and are saved in my Gmail.
> 
> Also! Here's my [Tumblr.](http://nikescaret.tumblr.com) Come visit and chat with me if you want!


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